


these sweet thoughts

by adelagia



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelagia/pseuds/adelagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Louis has the worst day of his life, it's only because Harry hasn't accidentally walked into it yet. </p><p>Featuring Louis as Ariel in a production of <i>The Tempest</i>, Harry as a happily overworked pastry chef, Niall their cheerleader, Zayn their less vocal but equally enthusiastic cheerleader, Kinder Surprises, stiff peaks, and someone getting punched by mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everything contained herein is purely fictional, and should be taken seriously by absolutely no one. Title is from Shakespeare's _The Tempest_.

He's fucked.

His friends and family have warned him, since time immemorial, that his penchant for overreacting will do him in one day, and Louis has a bad, bad feeling that day is today. He couldn't help it, though. The director had _screamed_ at him, spittle and accusations flying, _less than two weeks till opening night and you still don't know your blocking_ and _fucking hell, Louis, your audition was ten times better than this_. What was Louis supposed to do? Stand there and take it, in front of the whole cast and crew? In front of his fucking understudy Max who's been gunning for his spot and trying to show him up since day one?

No, Louis did not stand and take it. He ran. Stamped with ringing footsteps up the aisles, out the double doors, into the grey London streets. Wee fucking wee all the way home.

And now he's fucked and probably doesn't have a job anymore and he hates that James was right to begin with because he should've got his blocking down at least a week ago even though his blocking is the most complex out of everyone's and keeps changing and fucking Max will be Ariel after all and Louis hopes the seams of his costume split right up the arse.

Forehead pressed against the outside of his door, Louis jangles through his keyring for the right key with shaking hands. Shoving it into the lock, he turns the deadbolt, walks into his sparse studio flat, and collapses facedown onto the sofa. Its worn, burgundy velvet smells vaguely of stale beer and there are many years of bum imprints that he's pressing his face into, but who cares? His life is over. His first big break in a theatre that sits more than twelve people, and he's blown it.

When breathing becomes a difficulty, Louis lifts his head and violently flops over onto his back, arching his hips up to tug his mobile out the back pocket of his jeans. Swipe, swipe, scroll, until he finds an app that will help hasten his descent into expert level self-loathing. Large Hawaiian pizza, garlic bread because it's not like he's got anyone to scare away with horrific breath, 1.5L Pepsi. His thumb hovers over the 'Order' button for a hesitant second. He does not have the money for frivolous expenses like this, but again, his brain asks, _who gives an actual fuck?_ He orders all the things. He can regret it later, he can have a bonfire of remorse for everything he's ever done in his life, including but not limited to the time he decided he could make it in theatre.

The deed done, he presses his face into the back of the sofa this time, in the angled crease between the back and the seats, its enveloping darkness welcome and the hint of a stench suitable punishment for a series of screw-ups he's sure won't end today.

Ten seconds later, there's a thudding against his door, like someone's kicking at its base. Louis jolts up. Did he suffocate himself into momentary unconsciousness? He lights his phone up; the time display shows him that only two minutes have passed since he ordered his Solitary Feast of Everlasting Regret. It can't already have got here.

Louis eases himself off the sofa, slouches over to the door. He crowds against the peephole, getting an eyeful of semi-transparent, stacked boxes. The unidentified person carrying them kicks his door again. He's most likely unemployed now, so Louis technically has the time for this, but not the requisite patience.

"Mate," Louis demands as he swings the door open. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Hiii," says a friendly, gravelly voice from behind the boxes. Without invitation, he strides right in. "Sorry I'm late. My sat nav tried to drive me into the river. Oh, there's the kitchen." 

The intruder makes a ninety-degree turn to the right and sets his boxes on the kitchen worktop, an assortment of tupperware and things that go clank on contact. The large, black duffel bag that's been hanging from his left shoulder is set carefully onto the floor. He turns to face Louis with a bright grin that's all shiny teeth and dimples, offset by the truly ridiculous floral pink scarf that holds dark curls from his face.

"Who the fuck are you?" Louis asks from the still-open door.

The grin dims by several watts. "Oh, sorry, I thought Niall told you. I'm Harry. Harry Styles? I'm the personal chef Niall hired for you? Once a week? Starting today?"

"Hi, Harry," Louis clips to forestall yet another statement-question. If he didn't have much patience before, he's dipping down well into the negatives now. "Who the fuck is Niall?"

Harry's mouth opens, but the question seems to have struck him dumb. After a moment of goldfish gaping, he says, "You're not Zayn Malik?"

Louis rubs his face vigorously. Why is this happening to him? All he wanted was to have a good, miserable time by himself and his life choices and giant mouthfuls of pizza to cram all his feelings down where they can never hurt him again, and instead the universe has seen fit to blitz him with this-- this weird, tall man-- boy?-- dressed like he's going for a play date at Kitchen Stadium. Louis strangles a cry of frustration as it rises up his throat.

"At the risk of repeating myself," Louis says, a picture of calm, ocean breezes, " _who the fuck is Zayn Malik?_ "

"Er, not you?" Harry guesses. He consults the blue scribbles on his palm, and looks at Louis again, lost. "Sorry, this _is_ Flat 3E?"

"I don't know, can you read your letters?" Louis asks, pointing to the tarnished gold plating affixed to his front door, which clearly, clearly reads _3F_.

Harry's eyes widen. "Ooh, sorry," he says, and starts gathering up all his things from the counter, looking as distressed as a wet kitten. "Sorry. I'm so sorry to have bothered you."

He's so earnest and his cheeks have gone pink like his scarf, and Louis feels his irritation drain away from him all at once, and a weird desire to give Harry's arm a reassuring touch slides neatly in its place. "Honest mistake," he says, in what he hopes sounds magnanimous and not as put out as he's been since Harry accidentally walked in.

Harry glances at him from under his lashes, a flash of bottle-green as the hanging kitchen light reflects in his eyes, and dials his smile back up.

It's not the prettiest thing he's ever seen, it's not, it's not. Damn near close, though, and Louis manages to return a fraction of it. "Need a hand with that?"

"No, no, no," Harry insists, smiling even bigger. "I've got it. Thank you." He dances across the threshold and into the corridor with his bag and teetering pile of whatever all that is. "Sorry, again. I hope you have a nice day!"

"Bit late for that," Louis says to himself, and though Harry gives him a quizzical look, Louis doesn't answer the implied question and shuts the door.

He stays where he is for a few seconds, hears the muted, dull thumping of Harry's boot repeatedly meeting 3E's door. Someone greets him with a happy _heeey_ and he gets to hear Harry's _hiii_ again, as cheerful as it was before. Then, the click of the door shutting, and silence. Louis kind of wishes he hadn't disabused Harry of the notion of having come to the right flat.

By the time his pizza arrives half an hour later he doesn't want it. Still, he nibbles at a piece of garlic bread out of duty and shoves the rest of the food into the fridge; it'll keep him for a couple of days at least, while he contemplates returning to the hell of shopping centre retail. M&S hadn't been too bad, he thinks; he'd left that one with most of his soul intact and a packet of chocolate digestives for a parting gift.

He _could_ also apologise to James. Ugh. He's not ready to think about that yet. He wants to simmer in the indignation of it all; it is seriously not his fault that James keeps getting these massive creative lightbulb moments that have drastically changed Louis' blocking since the beginning weeks. Even the stage manager's blocking notes for him are nearly incomprehensible to herself at this point; he'd asked her for a cue, _sorry am I crossing down right or down centre here_ , and had got a long pause in return, and then James had just lost it.

Still, it's Louis' job to get it down, whatever the director asks of him. Fuck.

He's not thinking about it yet. Louis clicks on the telly, wastes a couple of hours switching back and forth between a darts world championship semi-final and whatever imported reality TV nightmare Dave has seen fit to marathon. It makes his life feel marginally less horrific for a few minutes, and he gets a second wind for the garlic bread in his fridge.

As a moon-faced Belgian shoots easy dart after dart into the same, precise slice of the target, another knock on the door startles Louis into dropping his bread. It, of course, in the grand tradition of all buttered breads before it, lands face down on the floor. "Shitting fuck," Louis mutters, picking it up immediately and mentally invoking whatever rule it is that makes it okay to eat things off the floor. Barely two seconds of contact; it's like it never left his possession at all.

The knocking starts up again while Louis contemplates the bread. It doesn't sound like Harry's kicking from before, and it's not the polite rap of the delivery person. What it sounds like is someone attempting a drum solo on his door.

Louis wrenches the door open just to make it stop.

"Hi!" says a smiley blond on the other side of it. "I'm Niall."

"Okay…" Louis says with suspicion.

Niall leans forward conspiratorially and stage-whispers, "Here's the part where you introduce yourself."

"Louis," he says reluctantly. What is this day? Why are there so many people suddenly at his door vying for his attention? It's been a veritable parade of cute boys marching across his doorstep, and he is too tired and upset, and he cannot be arsed to do anything about it today. Why is life like this?

"Nice to meet ye," Niall says, reaching for Louis' hand even though Louis has not so much as offered a finger. He shakes it firmly, exuding the affable demeanour of the kind of giant dog that thinks it belongs on everyone's lap no matter how many times it's been pushed off.

Looking bemusedly at their linked hands until Niall drops contact, Louis says, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, Harry sent me. The lad who accidentally walked into your flat earlier. Tall, curly?" he clarifies, just in case Louis lives the kind of life where strangers regularly traipse uninvited through his living room and loses track of them. "He's left, but he wanted me to give you this."

Louis looks at the proffered item. It's a small, green, plastic bowl, a chip on the rim, with a generous scoop of ice-cream in it. There's even a little leaf garnish. "I... Why?"

Niall shrugs. "He said there was a really fit boy next door having a bad day, so Zayn and I should share our dessert." He pauses, apparently to rewind and silently replay what he's just said in his head. "There was one part of that I wasn't supposed to say out loud. Are you having a bad day?" he asks, rocking forward slightly, blue eyes alight, as if he's actually interested in the answer.  

"Er," Louis demurs. He has not, up to this point in his life, made a habit of pouring his heart out to anyone who turns up on his doorstep, and the odds of starting today are slim at best. "I don't think I really want to talk about it."

The rebuffal appears to be no skin off Niall's nose. "All right. Well, take this; it'll make you feel better even if you're not having a bad day. 'S homemade," he says, holding the bowl of ice-cream out expectantly. "Go on."

Out of societal convention, Louis takes it, though his eyes are still narrowed. It's also societal convention that makes him say, "Thanks." He gets a disproportionately large grin in return.

Tapping the doorframe twice with his palm, Niall says, "Okay! See you around. Come by sometime, maybe." Without waiting for any kind of response, Niall scuttles back to wherever he came from.

Louis cranes his head out the doorway, sees him disappear into 3E. "Right," he says to the empty hallway. "Yeah."

He walks back into his flat, closing the door behind him with his foot, surveying the ice-cream closely. It looks lovely, ribbons of caramel laced throughout. Could be poison. He tries to think of why Harry might want to poison him; he hadn't been very polite to Harry, but poison seems a melodramatic response (Louis' favourite kind, normally). Besides, Harry had seemed… nice. He comes up empty thinking of reasons Niall might have to poison him, or this mysterious Zayn they keep mentioning. Finally, Louis decides that if this is the way the universe wants him to go, he could do worse than a dash of arsenic in his dessert.

Louis fishes a spoon out of the cutlery drawer, takes a tentative bite. Salt hits his tongue first, tastes like the tears he'd cry if he was the kind of person to shed them, and then sweet coats it through. The moan it coaxes from his throat belongs in a porn film. Louis finishes the ice-cream in minutes, licks the spoon, hides in the kitchen with his back turned to the windows so no one can see him licking the bowl clean.

Mid-crouch, Louis laughs at himself, and realises it's the first time he's laughed all day.

***

The first thing he does the next morning is return the bowl, washed, obviously. He dashes off a thank-you note ( _Thank you. -L_ , _3F_ , it says, to-the-point), and considers writing another one to Harry as well, but he doesn't know what to say that wouldn't be the exact same thing. That, or he'd end up with graphical diarrhoea and telling Harry just how much his ice-cream brightened up a truly shit day, even though it was a mere scoop of ice-cream and a friendly gesture at best (that said, he hasn't forgotten he's been christened _the really fit boy next door_ ). He decides not to take the risk, that just the one thank-you note is fine and all-encompassing, and then absently fashions it into an origami boat while he mentally composes a much longer, crow-eating, drivelling apology to James.

Grabbing his jacket and backpack, Louis drops the boat into the bowl and sets it outside 3E, four sharp raps on the door, and jogs down the stairs. One storey down, he hears a faint, "Sick!" that could be Niall. Louis chuckles to himself and carries on.

Out in the street, Louis weaves himself into walking traffic, snatches of conversations darting past his ears, an erratic rhythm to the rumble of passing cars. He pulls out his mobile, dials James, and takes a long, deep breath; the air is tinged with the chill of an encroaching autumn, and the city he now calls home gives him strength. Damp, smoky strength, just the way he likes it.

On the third ring, James picks up. "Louis? That you?"

"James," Louis says resolutely. He has his whole speech planned out; it will bring tears to every eye and break down all walls in the near vicinity. Hamlet's soliloquy will be deemed rubbish in comparison. "Listen--"

"Did El get a hold of you? We're starting at ten-thirty today; schedule's had to change a bit. I told El to tell you; did she tell you?"

Caught off-guard, Louis' footsteps falter, and someone bumps into him from behind, obviously not having expected Louis to stop entirely. A disgruntled _watch it_ along with pursed, disapproving lips makes Louis wave a hand in apology while he scurries to the side, sheltering outside a Boots storefront.

"Er, no," Louis says, his brow furrowing. "I didn't hear from her." He also hasn't checked his email since yesterday morning, the one he uses professionally, where it says his full name right in the address. The one Lottie made for him several years ago, _boobearlouis_ at gmail, he uses religiously with breezy nonchalance to combat the teenage hipster irony she'd intended.

"Fuckin'--" James says. "Well, can you make it? Ten-thirty?"

"Yeah, yeah." Louis had left with plenty of time to spare for the regular eleven-thirty rehearsal; he'd been hoping to catch James early and alone in case the phone call didn't go over well. He'll get on his knees and grovel for James and most of the crew, but there was no way he was going to do it in front of fucking Max. Louis ratchets his attention back where it belongs. "Yeah, I can make it. I mean… If you'll still have me."

James bursts out laughing, and when they're not fighting about how shit Louis has been at his job, James' voice is maybe one of his favourite things, especially when it takes on this gleeful tilt. " _If I'll still have you?_ " he giggles two octaves above his normal range. "Listen, mate, I had a strop, you had a strop, we're both sorry, and now we're over it. We didn't _break up_." He giggles again at the thought of it.

Louis can't help but join in, though his laugh is a little bit wheezy with relief. He still has a job, fucking Max isn't staging a coup on his role, and James is still his friend. The apocalypse is the opposite of nigh. What had his mum said about Louis always overreacting, again?

His heart feels a million times lighter when he hangs up. Stuffing his phone into his back pocket, Louis continues his walk to the theatre; he's made this journey dozens of times, usually in a rush to, and trudging with exhaustion from. He picks up his pace, almost to a jog. He doesn't have the time to spare for a leisurely walk now that the rehearsal time's been pushed up, but his feet slow of their own accord as he passes by a French patisserie even before his brain processes what he's seen.

Through the front window, a clear glass view of tiers of breads and cakes, he spies Harry standing behind the display case at the back of the small shop, hands on his aproned hips, brow furrowed in contemplation of the pastry arrangement.

Louis' heart picks up speed with every other beat as he stands there, like he's on the cusp of something important, though he can't imagine what it might be. Louis doesn't have time to talk. He doesn't even know what to say. They're not friends or anything. Harry just happened to walk into his flat yesterday, and Harry just happens to be in the patisserie Louis passes by every day. The universe isn't trying to tell him things.

Compromising, Louis taps on the window with his knuckles. At the sound, Harry's head jerks up, the dent between his eyebrows smoothing as they lift in surprise. Louis mouths _thank you_ at him, and the wide grin he gets in answer unexpectedly warms him all the way to his toes. Harry mimes what Louis assumes to be _you want to come in?_ But Louis gestures right back that he has to go, and Harry nods in cheerful understanding. It's all very… Louis doesn't know what word describes it, whatever this is, but the smile that he keeps having to fight off, long after the patisserie's been left far behind, tells him enough.

It's with a skip to his step that he breezes into the theatre with more than a few minutes to spare, met almost immediately by their stage manager Eleanor, who elbows him in his left lung to welcome him back. "Diva," she murmurs with a smirk.

Louis raises his palms. "Guilty." With most of the other cast and crew already gathered for their first run-through with the majority of the set built, Louis calls out, contrite, "Sorry for walking out yesterday, everyone."

"You weren't missed," says fucking Max, in a tone that could be construed in perfect seriousness or as a wry joke, but he gets punched in the arm by one of the running crew, and no one else echoes the sentiment.

Louis wonders what James said to everyone after he stomped out; maybe James is magical, or it's possible that after weeks of rehearsals in close quarters, people actually kind of like Louis enough to let him throw a fit once in a while. That would be nice. Also nice is that James swings by to give him a bear hug and apologise, seriously, for losing his temper with Louis.

While they wait for tech cues, Ian, who's the best Prospero Louis has ever had the privilege of seeing on stage, not to mention working with, pats him on the shoulder with avuncular affection. He leans in to say quietly, "The first time I landed a big role, I celebrated so hard I turned up piss drunk to rehearsals the next day, tried to kiss the producer, and got fired on the spot. Take heart, my boy. It could've been worse."

It's not the fuzziest thing he's ever heard from someone who looks like a cuddly grandpa behind the scenes, but Louis will take it. He grins.

The rest of the day runs as smoothly as a preliminary dress rehearsal can go, which is to say, not very. Things that have been superglued and stapled and welded together on the set fall off at the slightest bump, Leigh Anne trips over her costume and leaves a giant rip in it, Olly runs into a beam and gives himself a shiny bruise that he can't stop prodding at, James loses a page of notes somewhere in the stalls. It's all incredibly soothing in its own way. The best part is that Louis forgets his blocking in just one scene, the closing scene, and that's only because he gets distracted by their lunch orders being delivered, and he's not the only one.

It's dark by the time James lets them leave, the sky inky behind a thin layer of wispy, grey clouds. Louis trudges home through lamplit streets, tired, his feet dragging, but happy. He slows his pace when he approaches the patisserie, though he thinks Harry probably isn't in there anymore since their brief encounter mid-morning. A quick, surreptitious peek through the front window proves him right, and it's a mild disappointment that accompanies him all the way home and up the stairs.

He's met by a butterfly-shaped post-it note on his door. _Come hang out - Niall x_ , it reads. Helpfully, he's also drawn an arrow pointing towards 3E. In the same handwriting underneath, smaller and cramped as he runs out of space, there's also a _We have beer, but we will accept more._

Louis enters his own flat, deposits his backpack on the floor, throwing his keys somewhere. He considers the invite. He considers the three bottles of assorted beers that clink invitingly at him every time he opens the fridge. The universe appears to have taken a sudden and unsubtle interest in his life. Louis has no choice. He gathers his alcoholic friends and carries them next door.

"Ayyy," Niall cheers as soon as he opens the door.

"I brought beer," Louis says, lifting his bottles up as evidence.

"Beautiful boy," Niall declares.

The flat, a corner unit, is a much bigger one than Louis' own little studio, which he can only afford because the landlord Ed has more compassion than he does fiscal sense and lets Louis earn his keep by doing the occasional odd job; it works out great because this means he also gets the spare key to the rooftop where he can run lines like he means it without disturbing anyone through his flat's walls. Sometimes Ed smokes weed up there, too, and shares.

The expanse of the flat would be the first thing Louis noticed, but what really draws the eye is that every available surface, save the kitchen, is covered in paper.

Louis relinquishes his beer to Niall's waiting arms. "Er, you're an artist?"

"Not me; can't draw for crap. Zayn's the one," Niall says, jerking his head towards the bedroom door through which said Zayn emerges, clad in black from head to ankle, barefoot as he steps carefully through the pictures that litter his floor.

Zayn rubs a sleepy eye and acknowledges Louis' presence with a nod. "Hey," he says, with a slight wariness in the set of his bare, narrow shoulders. From them hangs a loose black vest with a cobra head on it, ready to attack, the diametric opposite of Zayn's soft features. "You from next door? Niall said you might stop by."

"I'm trying to socialise him," Niall says to Louis in a loud whisper, the back of one hand arched at the side of his mouth. "He needs to get out more."

"I'm workin'," Zayn counters.

Niall ushers Louis in towards the living room and sits him on a plush, sheepskin rug on the floor. "Sorry, too much crap on the sofa to move. Have a cushion," he says, plumping one up and wedging it between Louis' back and the front of the dark leather sofa before Louis even knows what's happening. 

Zayn comes over to join them, sitting not exactly next to Louis, but just far enough away not to be rude.

"Zayn's doing the art for a new comic book series. Just got commissioned by a major publisher. It's gonna be massive," Niall announces proudly, even though no one asked. "What?" he says when Zayn gives him a look. "You're too modest to tell people, so I have to do it for you. That's what PAs do. Especially since you're too nice to actually let me do anything for you. Which is what you hired me for, by the way."

Louis studies a couple of the pencil sketches closest to his feet; they're of different angles of a costumed man in motion, each drawing so lifelike the character might just dash off the page at any moment. Louis doesn't pick the papers up in case Zayn's sensitive about people touching his art, but he says, "These look amazing, bro. It's like, you can almost feel the movement."

"Thanks," is all Zayn says, but there's a little curl to the corner of his mouth that suggests he's pleased.

"Louis, what do you do?" Niall asks, as he sits opposite and sets the beers at his feet.

"I'm an actor," Louis says.

"Cool," Niall says, and it looks like he actually means it.

Usually when Louis tells people what he does for a living, they get a sort of frozen smile on their face like they're wondering what the gentlest way is to break it to him that it's not a real job and he should be memorising lines like _Hello I'm Louis and I'll be your waiter tonight_ instead. Louis decides Niall gets a lifetime pass for not even going near that look.

"Are you in anything we would know?" Niall asks. He wiggles his fingers at Zayn until he surrenders a lighter, and cracks the crown cap off a beer bottle with it. Doing the same with the other bottles, he then passes the beers around, taking a long swig of his.

Louis shakes his head. "Probably not. I mostly do theatre." It's not that he hasn't tried for something in television -- bit parts here and there, one-offs; most recently as the red herring on an episode of _Endeavour_ , that was fun, great costume. It's just that he doesn't get the same kind of charge from it as he does performing live -- the sway of an energetic audience that can push or pull a performance one way or another, how every single night is different despite them saying the exact same words and treading the exact same boards, and, he'll freely admit, the ring of applause in his ears. There's nothing like the rush of making an audience laugh or cry with a single word; he lives for it.

There's also nothing like watching people's eyes glaze over when he goes on and on about how much he loves theatre, so Louis asks, "Did you guys just move in? I don't think I've seen either of you before."

"Yeah, a couple weeks ago," Zayn says, fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of his shirt, as if admitting this much is too much. "From Bradford."

"I don't technically live here," Niall says. Rather than extrapolating, he takes another pull of his beer. "Ahh, nectar of the gods."

Louis squints at him. "So… You're squatting here?"

"'S'why the couch is a mess," Zayn says.

"Uh, tell me about messes again?" Niall says, no compunctions about Zayn's sensitivities as he lifts one of the drawings with his toes. "If I wasn't here, you would never go outside, you'd never meet people, you'd forget to eat. How can anyone forget to eat?"

Zayn just shrugs one shoulder like he doesn't owe anyone an explanation, but Louis understands. He knows the laser focus of getting so into a project that literally everything else in life is an unnecessary distraction. It's the best feeling. Maybe not the hollow, gnawing emptiness in his stomach and the near dizziness when he finally surfaces, but it is the best, nonetheless. He says as much, and gets a sage nod from Zayn.

Another thought strikes Louis. "Is that why you have Harry cooking for you?"

As if on cue, there's a knock at the door, and Niall scrambles to his feet. "Ha, Harry!"

Louis glances up at the ceiling, eyebrows curious and mouth slightly agape. "Fifty million pounds," he tries, but it fails to show up on the doorstep. On the upside, it does make Zayn chuckle, and Louis decides this is a game he'd like to play, figuring out what earns a laugh from Zayn.

"Only works on people," Zayn says, as though he's privy to the mysterious workings of the upstairs. Then again, he does have that descended-straight-from-the-heavens look about him. "And once, my dog."

Louis laughs. "Aren't dogs _supposed_ to come when you call?"

"Wasn't my dog at first, was he? Was a stray," he explains, as much as that's an explanation.

"Hiii," says Harry's voice near the door. "Brought some day-olds if anyone wants them."

He walks in with Niall, and Niall takes the pastry box from him, sticks his fingers in, and rummages around. "Ooh, this one's mine," he says, picking out a large chocolate eclair. He stuffs half of it in his mouth, emitting a thoroughly indecent noise as he bites into it. His attempt to speak through his mouthful is incoherent, but Harry gives him a thumbs-up.

"Hi," says Harry again, a little softer, when his gaze meets Louis'. He plucks the box from Niall's grip and shuffles closer, holding the box out in the middle of Louis and Zayn. "Pastry? They're from this morning."

Zayn gestures with a lift of his chin that Louis can go first. He likes Zayn, Louis decides. He's not the most expressive, but he says whatever he thinks needs to be said and leaves it there. It's a good skill to have, probably. Also, he willingly shares his desserts, the mark of a true friend.

Louis peers into the box containing the patisserie's cast-offs, an assortment of glazed tarts and rich gateaux. He looks up at Harry, who's watching him closely and trying not to look like it. "Did you make these?" Louis asks, already impressed.

"Some of them," Harry says, a little shyly.

"Which? I want to eat one that you made with your own hands," Louis says. When Harry points out a pecan tart, Louis snatches it up immediately, breaks off a piece, and pops it in his mouth. "Jesus Christ."

Niall makes a noise of agreement and motions for Zayn to get in on the action.

Because sometimes boundaries only exist for Louis to kick them down, he takes another piece of the tart and aims it at Zayn's mouth. "Catch," he says, and because Zayn is as perfect as he looks, he snags it between his lips with barely any effort, and smiles as he chews; Louis sort of feels like he's been approved of.

"Harry," Louis says, patting his socked foot. "Harry, this is amazing. Best thing I've ever put in my mouth since the ice-cream yesterday, which was the best thing I've ever put in my mouth since ever."

Zayn nods. "Chicken yesterday was good, too. Thanks."

The pale pink flush that overspreads Harry's cheeks is a sight Louis files away for future perusal, and now that he knows saying nice things about Harry gets that look on his face, Louis is determined to do it more often. Assuming he gets the chance, because--

"Thanks," says Harry, rubbing one foot against the other. He looks apologetically at Niall and says, "Anyway, sorry to cut the party short, but I've just got off a double shift, so."

"Yeah, comin'," says Niall.

"Wait, you were there?" Louis' mouth asks Harry before he can shut it up. It carries on, heedless of his brain's signals to stop. "When I walked past the shop a little while ago, I didn't see you."

Harry's lips lift into a pleased smile that he unsuccessfully tries to bite down; it seems they are compatible in at least one way, rogue facial muscles. "You looked for me?" he asks.

"Just… You know," Louis says, gesturing something so vague he doesn't even know what he's trying to gesture. "Peeked in. Just to see."

Zayn steals the rest of the tart off him, looking like he's enjoying himself as Harry smiles at Louis again as if Louis' the only one in the room. Louis could maybe get used to this.

"I was probably in the back," Harry says. He glances at Niall, who's busy shuffling some of Zayn's stuff around and dropping assorted detritus into a tatty messenger bag, and comes back to Louis. "Erm, did you have a better day today?"

Louis feels a smile creep up on its own. "Yeah, yeah, I did, thanks. And thank you, again, for yesterday. Like," he says, and pauses, doesn't quite know how to rein himself in, "it was literally the best thing in my whole day."

"Glad I could help," Harry says, biting on his bottom lip and giving Louis a close-mouthed smile that still pulls his dimples deep.

"Okay," Niall says, with an amused lilt to his voice, dropping the strap of his bag across one shoulder. He grabs Harry by the arms and steers him towards the door. "Let's go home, darlin'. Thanks for coming to fetch me. See you tomorrow, Zayn. You too, Louis."

It's fortunate that Louis has been trained from a young age that when someone bids him goodbye, the least he can do so as not to be labelled an ill-mannered brute is to wave. So he waves. The rest of him is stuck to the floor as he watches Niall usher Harry out, their arms linked. He's sure he hasn't just imagined the near flirting between himself and Harry, and granted, he has known Niall for all of twenty minutes, but in zero of that time has Niall given his gaydar the tiniest ping. Okay, so maybe he will have to jettison his plans to casually frequent the patisserie until Harry has no choice but to fall for his charms. It had seemed a great plan three minutes ago. Now he just feels like an idiot, not least because the disappointment that lines his chest in lead should empirically not feel this heavy. He just met Harry yesterday, for god's sake. And Harry is already entangled in someone else's charms. Get it together, Louis.

"They're flatmates," Zayn says.

The words barely pierce Louis' garbled consciousness, but he manages to say, "What?"

"Flatmates," Zayn repeats, with no inflection whatsoever. "Niall and Harry."

Louis doesn't know what's happening. Neither does he want to acknowledge the little thrill of hope that sparks back up inside him. "And?"

Shrugging, Zayn says, "Just saying. Thought you looked like you were wondering."

He won't thank Zayn for the information because he thinks he'll just get another shrug again. "Does this work for you? This whole…" Louis draws a circle in the air around Zayn's person. "Strong, silent thing?"

"Yeah."

Louis considers this. "Maybe I should try it sometime."

"Wouldn't last five minutes, you."

Perhaps Louis should be insulted, or appalled, at the very least, by the amount of presumption, but all he gets is deepening endearment. "I could do it," Louis argues for the sake of it. "You don't know."

Zayn's lips quirk upwards, but he chooses not to counter Louis' statement.

"Oh, you're good, I hate you," Louis says, and this time it earns him a quiet laugh. He quite likes this game. Getting to his feet before he overstays his welcome, he takes his nearly finished beer and deposits the bottle neatly in the sink. "Thanks for the company. See you around, yeah?"

Waving at him from the floor, Zayn lets Louis let himself out.

***

Is it too much? It is too much. Louis mashes his face into his pillow and groans like a maimed beast. He'd set his alarm last night for the ungodly ten o'clock hour, with clever plans of taking some extra time with his hair so it can look artfully windswept as he ambles very slowly past the patisserie window and repeatedly if need be. It is now ten-forty-eight, having pressed _snooze_ seven times, and Louis is not sure any boy is ever worth getting up at ten for. But if there was…

Indulging in a soft-focus lens dream sequence in which Harry smiles that dimpled smile at him again when Louis surprises him at his work, Louis doesn't actually manage to get out of bed till four minutes past eleven, by which time, his hair will just have to fend for itself, and Louis has to book it.

He spends enough time in the shower to get drenched, brushes his teeth for much shorter than the dentist recommended amount of time, fusses with his hair for several minutes he doesn't have and it wastes the minutes he doesn't have by refusing to cooperate. Throwing on joggers and a shirt off the floor that doesn't smell, Louis rams his glasses onto his face and a knitted beanie over his head, and runs out the door with his jacket in one fist and backpack in the other.

It takes fifteen minutes to get to the theatre if he speedwalks at Olympic records, eight if the bus just happens to turn up at the stop at the exact time Louis does. It doesn't, because public transportation hates him and all that he stands for; this is his theory and the bus has yet to prove him wrong.

So he has to walk-run through the streets like he does every morning, except this morning he cannot _not_ stop at Harry's patisserie, which he doesn't even remember the name of, it's just Harry's patisserie now. It's already out of hand, this effortfully casual stopping-by, and this is only the first time he's done it on purpose. As before, Harry's behind the counter surrounded by well-lit, artfully decorated pastries. Louis taps on the window, grinning and waving as soon as Harry looks up, then dashing off down the street again because he seriously doesn't have time for this.

The length of a bank has just streaked past his peripheral vision when Louis feels a light tapping at his shoulder.

"Hi," says Harry, who's suddenly appeared next to him, jogging alongside.

Louis does not nearly trip over his own feet, nor does he yelp like a small dog, and he will cut anyone who dares suggest otherwise. "What are you doing?" he asks. Before Harry can answer, he adds, "Can't stop, gonna be late."

"You don't have to," Harry says, keeping pace easily. In fact, he's practically skipping; his spindly giraffe legs taking one step for every two of Louis'. He looks a sight, gambolling out here in just a black t-shirt and an apron over black jeans. "Have you had breakfast? Or, erm, elevenses?"

"What? No?"

"Good, 'cos I, er," says Harry, shoving at him a small paper bag, "made this for you. In case you came by." He bites his lower lip, already gone red from running in the cool autumn air.

"Harry, that's mad," Louis says, accepting and clutching the bag close, before Harry can take it the wrong way. So they both have problems playing it it close to the vest; relationships have been built on less. "Thank you, you're my new favourite person. Aren't you supposed to be working, though?"

Harry grins, part of his bottom lip still caught under his teeth. "Taking my break early."

They stop only because the red _don't walk_ sign is staring them down at the other side of the pelican crossing, though Louis bounces on his toes to keep his heart rate steady. He takes the opportunity to peek inside the bag, sees a flaky chocolate croissant that makes his stomach groan with anticipation.

"You're going to make me fat," Louis grumbles, even as he pinches off one end of the croissant and eats it with a happy jiggle to his shoulders.

"Not with all this running you're doing."

"You gonna run with me all the way to the theatre?"

For a moment it almost looks like Harry's going to say yes, but he ducks his head with a slightly guilty sheen in his eyes. "I should actually get back to work. I didn't exactly tell my boss I was taking my break. You were just running so fast..."

"Harry!" Louis laughs. "Go."

"Okay." Harry smiles and turns to leave.

"No, wait." Louis grabs his arm, a mental idea driving his movements. He lifts the beanie off his own head and fits it over Harry's, having to get on his toes to do it, making sure to cover the tips of Harry's cold, reddening ears. "Now you can go. Catch your death coming out here in just a t-shirt."

The smile Harry gives him is nothing less than brilliant, and in that instant, it's clear that Louis could get up at ten o'clock for this boy every day. Nine, even. Eight is pushing it, but nine, he can do nine for Harry.

When the light changes, they part ways, and Louis' heart skips with him all the way to the theatre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to the lovely, amazing [mystardustmelody](http://www.mystardustmelody.tumblr.com) for beta reading for me! <3 
> 
> There will be seven parts in all, and I should be updating every couple of days. Comments are love, and please come and say hi at my [tumblr](http://www.mmmpointy.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined!


	2. Chapter 2

How long does it take for something to become a habit? If six days happens to be the mark, well then, this thing he and Harry are doing is a habit. Louis only presses the snooze button three or four times a morning now so he has time to actually go inside and buy a coffee from Harry's patisserie (it's called Tarte, he's learned in the interim, but that does not roll off Louis' tongue half as well as _Harry's patisserie_ ). It's become something of a highlight of his day.

He doesn't know much about Harry still, just a few basic facts and random trivia he's cadged off Niall (the best one being that Harry used to be lead singer in a band when he was sixteen -- and okay, _flay Louis alive already_ , thank you). As much as the universe has seen fit to drop Harry smack into the middle of his life, their schedules don't exactly mesh. Working for a patisserie means Harry gets up at half-three in the morning to bake and goes to bed well before the watershed, when Louis is at his best and brightest. Still, he takes what he can get for now, however small the doses.

Louis rolls into Harry's patisserie a few minutes before eleven, loitering next to a small display of tiered wedding cakes while Harry patiently explains to a curious customer what's in a mille-feuille, and then a selva, and then a frangipan. It takes most of Louis' willpower not to poke a finger into the pristine white cake at waist level, and the rest not to bodily shoo the customer away from Harry so he can take her place.

His reserves are not limitless, however, so although he keeps his fingers to himself, he steps forward, placing himself adjacent to the woman, and says, "They're all amazing, so I'd take one of each if I were you. Maybe get one of those four-packs? Can't go wrong with too many cakes, right?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't," the woman says in a nervous titter, like Louis has suggested she consider defrauding the HSBC down the street for larks. She shakes her head primly, frizzy, greying curls bouncing on top of each other.

"You can," Louis assures her. "Harry and I won't tell."

She waves a hand in a rapid back and forth motion. "No, no, that's far too much. I just wanted to get a little treat for my brother."

"Just your brother?" Harry leans on his elbows against the countertop, his head cocked to one side, taking in the picture before him. "Bet you don't do anything nice for yourself very often, do you?" he says, and Louis started this off as a joke, but now Harry looks genuinely concerned that this poor woman works too hard for everyone else and puts herself last always.

"Oh, well," says the woman ( _Marjorie_ , Harry gets out of her), shifting her feet in a way that looks like Harry's hit the nail on the head.

And then somehow it all comes out, the grandchildren she's taking care of because her daughter's in the midst of a nasty divorce, and her brother in hospital, and her sister who won't visit him because of what happened fifteen years ago. It is all eating into Louis' precious and limited time with Harry, but he can't complain because he gets to see Harry like this, showing off a heart so big it fills up the whole shop.

He watches Harry watch Marjorie talk as if she is the center of the world, so invested in a life that has never intersected with his until this very moment, and Louis has to call up every last molecule of his self-control again so as not to pounce on Harry and hug him until the end of days.

"Sweetheart," says Harry kindly, even though he is all of twenty-three and Marjorie could well be his grandmother, "you've got to take care of yourself, too. You're so important. It doesn't have to be cakes, but just promise us you'll do something nice for yourself today, all right? Promise?"

She nods, wipes the corner of her eye, a grateful smile on her face. "Well, maybe I will get two slices of cake. One for Alfie," she says, "and one for me."

" _Yes_ ," Louis cheers, offering a high five. "Well done, Marjorie."

Marjorie's laugh comes out a shy trill, like she's done something just a bit against the rules for the very first time. "Two of the mille-feuille, please?"

"Absolutely," Harry says, while Louis gives her an approving thumbs-up, and puts two pieces of cake in a box for her. While she digs for her purse, Harry drops a macaron in the box as well.

Once she's paid and left, all smiles, Louis narrows his eyes at Harry. "All this free stuff you just give away… You don't secretly own this place, do you? 'Cos I have to tell you, that's not how profit-making works."

Harry shrugs helplessly. "I let Vaughn know when I do it. Comes out of my pay if it's too much, but what's like, one macaron, you know?"

Louis will have to deal with his pathologic philanthropy in a second, but first he has to say, "Wait. So the croissant you gave me the other day? It came out your pay? Shit, now I feel like a dick for taking it."

"No," Harry laughs. "That one was… Sometimes we don't put out all the things we make because, like, they're a bit misshapen, you know? That one wouldn't have made the display."

More narrowed eyes are in order. Louis has seen the things Harry can make; they're never less than stunning. Plus, even though Harry's explanation is perfectly logical, the apples of his cheeks have gone a bit rosy. " _Purposely_ misshapen?" Louis guesses, giving him an arch look.

"I don't know what you mean," is Harry's noble effort at denial, but his face goes pinker and he can't quite tamp down the curling corners of his mouth.

And that there is why Louis has come every day for six days straight, for a precious few minutes in this boy's company. It has taken only a week and change for him to tumble headfirst into the rabbit hole of Harry's charm, a quality he's not even sure Harry's aware of, and he doesn't think he'll ever get out. He doesn't ever want to, to be honest. He likes it here, a lot.

Real life beckons him out, though, as Louis notices the clock behind Harry. If he's late for final dress, James will gut him with a prop sword.

"Gotta run," Louis sighs; the time he has with Harry seems to run out faster and faster each day. "See you tomorrow?"

"Always," says Harry.

***

Scrubbing off his Ariel make-up takes forever, and even after that, traces of the shimmery blue-silver blend still glitter at the edges of his temple and along his cheekbones. If he washes any more, he'll be taking layers of skin off, so Louis just leaves it. He will just have a sparkly face to fit his personality, and where is the problem in that?

"Missed a spot," Max says when Louis passes him on his way out of the dressing room area, jocular, as if they're anywhere near the vicinity of being friends. His tanned face, quite obviously not a product of the English sun in September, is decorated with an ingratiating smile that doesn't touch his deep-set eyes.

The genial tone rankles. Louis consoles himself with moral superiority when he takes the high road and doesn't indulge in violence for Max having earlier tried to get Louis to go on early, tried to convince him he'd misremembered an entrance cue. Louis' been an understudy before, he's been a swing, too, and he knows the disappointment of learning a whole set of extra lines and blocking for a bigger role than the one he's got and that he'll never get to perform. He doesn't know, however, how it festers into desperation so deep it makes someone think sabotaging another actor is ever a good idea.

"Least I didn't miss my cue," Louis says, fabricating an equally empty smile to throw back.

"Yeah, sorry about that," says Max, gesturing with open hands. He runs one through his close-cropped hair. "Hope it won't screw you up for opening night."

It's exactly what fucking Max is hoping for, Louis suspects. "Don't worry, takes a lot more than that to rattle me," he says, going for cheerful, but it comes out dry, like a challenge, and the look that passes over Max's face suggests he takes it as one.

They're both saved from escalation as a few other actors walk by, and Louis seizes the opportunity to move away. He attaches himself smoothly to the passing group, joining in their chatter until they've reached the front exit, at which they all part ways. He won't see them again till the day after next; James has built in a day off between final dress rehearsal and the opening performance. Stepping out into the street, Louis breathes in a big lungful of cold air and lets it out along with all thoughts of fucking Max. Louis walks home, hands stuck in the pockets of a thick hoodie, passing glittering storefronts and empty newsagents.

He knows Harry won't be in the patisserie; Mondays are the only days he does double shifts. He has Harry's schedule memorised, and anyone is free to fight him if they find this in any way questionable. Still, he can't help a quick look inside as he bypasses the front window. No Harry; he wasn't expecting it anyway. It still leaves a sort of unsatisfactory feeling inside him, only having gotten to see Harry in the morning, even though that's been how it is every day the past week.

He reaches home, the tip of his nose cold from the wind. Rubbing a sleeved fist over it and jogging up the stairs, his disappointment at Harry's absence is momentarily forgotten when he sees another post-it decorating his door. It's bright pink this time, with Niall's bubbly hand all across it. _FIFA_ , is all it says, and hell yes, Louis can get down with that.

It takes only one knock before Niall's swinging the door wide open. "FIFA!" he says by way of greeting. His second greeting, no more conventionally appropriate than the first, is, "Did a glitter factory explode in your face?"

Zayn's flat is slightly more ordered this time round, much of the paper debris from before now piled in haphazard stacks next to the drafting table at which Zayn's working on something no doubt more beautiful than God's own creations.

Louis exchanges a hand-slap with him and asks, "You sure we can play video games in here? Looks like you're working."

"It's cool," Zayn says, leaning back in his chair, one crooked arm braced over the top of the backrest, open as he faces Louis. "It's, like, a good background noise. Like, soothing or summat."

"My voice," Niall cuts in, "is also soothing. He makes me sing to him sometimes." A loud cackle follows this, and then a truly inspiring rendition of the first verse of _Talk Dirty to Me_ , dance moves included. It is a sight to behold, and Louis is sure he will never be the same again.

"Mate," Louis says, one hand on Zayn's shoulder, rife with concern. "You specifically request for this to happen? Have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome by any chance?"

Zayn laughs as they contemplate together the sight of Niall gyrating away in the middle of the living room. "Yeah, that's a bit worrying, innit?"

Niall does not stop dancing to the music in his head, but he says, "I can hear you. You are being jealous bees over there." Even as he kneels to set up the Xbox, his head still bobs.

"What the fuck," Louis asks, coming over to accept the controller tossed at him, "is a jealous bee?"

"A jealous bee is a bee," Niall explains exasperatedly, like he's dealing with a particularly dim toddler, "that is jealous."

"Oh, it all makes sense now," Louis says. "I have seen the light."

While Zayn gets back to work, they start up their game, playing a versus match in Kick-Off mode, and the first ten minutes is nothing but trash talking as they attempt to outdo each other on the pitch while the computer animated crowd cheers and hisses at everything they do.

"Why," Niall says suddenly, while one of his players struggles to get past Louis' rock solid defense, "aren't you and Harry actually dating yet?"

If it's part of a distraction strategy, Louis is proud to say that it works with exactly zero percent success, as he wrests control of the ball and tears down the field with it. Even so, he's not about to divulge sensitive information without knowing why. "Who's asking? You? Or Harry asking through you?"

"What, you think Harry needs a go-between? Are we nine years old?"

Louis spares a quick glance his way. "You were dating at nine?"

"I was fuckin' cute, all right? The girls were lining up at my door," Niall says. "Far as the eye could see."

"I can believe that," Zayn calls out from his desk.

Niall grins wide, proud of his nine-year-old achievements. "First girl ever I dated was Katie Milligan. We held hands at the swings for five seconds. Best relationship I ever had. True story," he says with a dreamy sigh that turns into a yell as he fights off Louis' attempt at a goal. When the danger has passed, he says again, "Anyway, why aren't you and Harry actually dating yet?"

It's not an unreasonable question. Louis has asked it of himself a few times. What he comes up with in answer is that he's known Harry for just over a week, and that's counting all the days in order. Put together the number of minutes they've actually spent in each other's company, and it's a _miniscule_ amount. Like, so miniscule it's embarrassing how much he already likes Harry and wants to snog his face off.

He doesn't even have Harry's phone number, and that is a calculated move on Louis' part because he's afraid once he programs Harry's name into his mobile, the temptation to message Harry forty-seven times a day cannot be overcome. _Hi :)_ , he will type at first, normal and friendly-like, and then it will devolve seconds later into _My favourite thing about you is your curls. Or your smell_. Somebody will have to slap him multiple times. It cannot be borne.

"We have, like, opposite schedules," Louis says.

"Opposite schedules? _Lame_ ," Niall declares in the intonation of a game show buzzer to a wrong answer. "This is true love. You think this happens every day?"

"Don't you quote _The Princess Bride_ at me. In what universe," Louis asks, "do you think true love consists of talking to someone for five minutes a day?" Even as he makes a suitably scoffing noise, he desperately wants Niall to have a ready answer for it.

Niall comes through big. "In the universe that makes it okay for the ratio of actual interaction to not shutting up about you ever to be, like, one to a billion. Seriously, he will not shut up about your fuckin' face."

"It's a nice face," is Zayn's distant input.

"Thank you, Zayn. You also have a nice face," Louis calls out graciously. At the offended gasp Niall makes at being left out, Louis adds, "And you. We're all incredibly attractive." 

"Every day," says Niall, not done yet, "I have to listen to him go on about your stupid attractive face. And that day you wore your glasses? Shit."

Louis only ever wears his glasses when a) he's already running too late to be properly hygienic about sticking bits of plastic in his eyes, b) he's too tired to be arsed about looking good, or c) he's accidentally washed a lens down the drain. He considers adding the option that it makes Harry talk about him all the time. It is a good option. He shall wear his glasses tomorrow and every day thereafter. Except not the day he kisses Harry, because smudgy lenses are a friend to no one.

Turns out Niall's cleverer than he looks with this long game he's playing, because his distraction tactic works after all. While Louis' brain goes fuzzy with the thought of his lips pressed against Harry's, Niall steals the ball from right under his nose and takes off to the opposite end of the pitch. It's only due to Louis' inherent talent at all important things in life that he manages to get himself together in time to block a goal attempt that shrieks towards his keeper from nearly midfield.

"Nooo," Niall wails. "Bastard."

Louis laughs the maniacal laugh of a sated overlord as he takes control of the ball again. "That's what you get for trying to trick me into saying things," he says, and kicks Niall's foot.  

"I'm just asking you a simple question, ya knob," Niall says. To punctuate his point, he has a player tackle Louis'.

"Don't worry, I have a plan." He does not have a plan.

Niall looks over at him with one mighty, raised eyebrow. "What plan?"

"Shh," Louis says. "None of your business." It is worth it to lose control of the game for a few seconds so he can mash his hand into Niall's face.

It is not worth it when Niall licks his hand.

***

Louis has spent half an hour trying to think of acceptable reasons to sit in Harry's patisserie for the entirety of what remains of Harry's shift, four straight hours, no big deal -- _free wi-fi 'cos mine's mysteriously broken; I need cake to live; people-watching is sooo fun; I am desperately maybe sort of arse-over-elbow in love with this decor_. As it turns out, there are no acceptable reasons to loiter in a patisserie for four consecutive hours to surreptitiously watch someone go about his business. They all make him look creepy, sugar-starved, and also did he mention creepy?

So he doesn't. In fact, he strolls in much later than he's normally done, well after noon, since he doesn't have anywhere else to be for the rest of the day anyway. When Louis has a day off, he takes it very seriously. None of this catching up on errands or correspondence or laundry; a day off is explicitly for swanning about in his pants at home, with exceptions for going outside made exclusively for cute boys with curly hair and green eyes who shower him with day-old pastries.

Harry's whole face lights up as soon as Louis walks in, which makes Louis suspect that he would've gladly accepted _borked wi-fi_ as a reason for Louis creepily watching him from the corner table for hours. Exciting. (And also worrisome, because if he does that for anyone but Louis, they will need to have a talk about not encouraging perverts, and Louis will also have to look up the best places to bury a body.)

"I thought you'd abandoned me," Harry says with the eyes of the saddest puppy who has ever lived.

"Never," Louis says resolutely. The self-restraint he shows by not degenerating into a cooing, burbling mess should earn him some kind of award. And an additional medal for not petting Harry's hair. "Just had a lie-in, is all."

Harry smiles. "Oh, yeah, you have today off, don't you? What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to take you out," Louis says, to his own surprise. Oh. Er. That was not meant to come out his mouth. He's played his hand too early. Why does he do these things to himself and how can he backpedal without it looking overtly like he's backpedalling? Think think think think think.

"Are you?" Harry says in a low voice, leaning forward, elbows braced on the counter. His face is full of intrigue and a hint of _I dare you_ , as if he can sense Louis threatening to pull back and recant any minute.

Louis does not back down from challenges, real or imagined. Accepting challenges is why he has, at various points in his life, broken an arm, broken someone else's arm, and gotten suspended from school. It's also why he'd gone to his first audition, kissed a boy he liked, and introduced himself to the acclaimed director James Corden. Now it's going to get him a date with the most perfect boy he's ever known. Why had he been thinking of backpedalling, again?

" _Yes_ , Harold, I am," he says, with no real idea of what this entails. It'll come to him as he goes. He asks, as if he doesn't already know, "What time are you done here?"

Harry's smile widens. "Two-thirty."

"Then I will see you at two-thirty," Louis says, raps his knuckles on the counter for good measure, marking a promise on its marble top.

Breezing out of the patisserie before he can fuck up what he considers to be actually not a bad exit line, Louis strides up the street with confidence in every footfall until the patisserie is far enough behind that he can start running. He runs all the way home, autumn air and excitement twizzling through his lungs. He passes a young woman with one hand up as she gestures towards a building at her companion, and slaps an unsolicited high-five onto that hand, grinning madly.

Louis takes the stairs in his flat two exuberant steps at a time. There is no invitational post-it on his door today, but he knocks on 3E's door anyway.

Zayn opens it, hair still mussed from sleep.

"I'm going on a date with Harry today," Louis announces. He cannot stop bouncing on his toes, he will not stop bouncing on his toes.

Blinking, Zayn's face gradually breaks into a smile. "Get in here."

Niall's in the kitchen, filling a kettle. "Who's that? Oh, hey, Tommo. You want a cuppa? We got earl grey."

"Yes, please," Louis says, shrugging out of his jacket, warm now and almost sticky from his run. He saunters over to the kitchen, leans casually against the fridge. "Also, I'm going on a date with Harry today. In your absolute _face_ , Horan."

With the gentleness of a kitten, Niall slaps him across the cheek. "Ahh, I knew you could do it, you dumb bastard," he says, and pushes Louis away from the fridge so he can retrieve a bottle of milk. "Where're you going?"

"I don't know…" Louis admits. "Help?"

"You like Nando's?"

"Nobody likes Nando's."

Niall frowns. "You wanna fight?"

Zayn snickers as he opens a cupboard, pulling three mismatched mugs from its shelves, as well as a tin of biscuits. "Don't take him to Nando's." 

Sighing the disgruntled sigh of _well why did you ask me then_ , Niall takes the mugs from Zayn and pops a teabag into each, fills them with water. "To be honest, you can probably take Harry anywhere and he'll be happy. Not like saying he's a cheap date or whatever, but he can find a way to make anything work."

Louis dumps a finger of milk into his tea, contemplates the sea of yellow-leafed trees outside Zayn's kitchen window. Harry already works in a patisserie that already has good coffee, so Louis cannot go with the old standby of a coffee shop date. Not that he would anyway even if Harry wasn't already surrounded by coffee and baked goods, because Harry is better than an old standby. Harry also already cooks tastier things than most restaurants serve (if Zayn and Niall are to be believed, on the basis of his personal cheffing; Niall's word is iffy, but Zayn has no reason to lie), so Louis cannot bring him to just any food-related place, and not that he would anyway, because Harry deserves better than everything.

" _Why_ ," Louis moans suddenly, startling a biscuit out of Niall's hand, "is he perfect?"

"Keep it together, bro," Zayn says.

"I can't," Louis says. He turns to Niall urgently. "You know him, you're mates. What does he like to do? Besides baking and that?"

Niall coils backwards a little; it's probably because Louis has crazy in his eyes. "I don't know. We've only been flatmates, like, six months. That's all I've seen him do." He pauses. "He likes music? And cats?"

"I could take him to the zoo?" Louis throws out. "They have cats there. I mean, like, the big ones."

"He's not _four_."

On the contrary, Zayn says, thoughtfully, "I like the zoo. I'd like the zoo if you were taking me. Hang out in front of the penguins, like."

"Squawky," Niall argues. "Not romantic. Bird shit everywhere."

They cycle through a handful of other options and consult the Internet for first date ideas -- seeing a film (a dark room where Louis cannot talk and will end up staring at Harry for two hours, no thank you); doing touristy shit (no, fuck off, Big Ben is just a giant clock); visiting a museum (full of priceless things that Louis is expressly not allowed to touch, Louis will touch them all and get arrested, probably); going ice-skating (broken bones guaranteed, two at a minimum).

" _I can't help you_ ," Niall blares, after Louis nixes his twenty-sixth suggestion.

Zayn has claimed needing to get back to work, hunched over his desk and resolutely not contributing to the list of ideas Louis will no doubt toss in the discard pile straight away. Smart of him, really.

"You're both useless to me," Louis says without heat, pushing off from where he's slumped over the back of the sofa and heading to the kitchen. He rinses out his empty mug, plunks it upside down in the draining board. "I'm going home."

"Good luck," says Zayn.

"It'll be fine," Niall adds. "Seriously, he won't care what you do."

Louis waves goodbye, glad for friends who don't mind him being the way he is, and lets himself out. He pulls his ring of keys from his pocket, sorts through the small selection to find the right one to his front door. A smaller brass one glints at him, the key to the roof, and a thought strikes him, stilling all movement. He calls the image of the rooftop to mind; dull concrete and puddly in places, but there's a chest-level, wrought-iron railing so no one can accidentally roll off, and two sturdy deck chairs that Ed hauled up some time ago. The building's tall enough, seven storeys in all, to get a good view of the city, especially when the leaves are still full and golden at this time of year. That might just do.

He pushes into his flat and checks his phone for the time. He can do it. Louis sets a kettle on to boil, and dashes out and up the stairs to the roof because lifts are for losers.

It's a fine day, not raining for once in its life. There's just a hint of a breeze that tickles Louis ears as it dances by, but not cold enough to make Louis want to head straight back inside. It'll be good, Louis can already tell.

Back in his flat, he digs around for an empty box, puts a couple of plates in, cups and utensils, an emergency pack of cards in case they run out of things to talk about, heaven forbid. If it comes to that, they're as good as over; Louis tries not to think about it, but leaves the cards in, on the basis that if they're readily available, he won't need them. When the water's done boiling, he makes tea and pours it into a large thermos that goes in the box as well. Two afghans gifted lovingly by his dear old nan are nestled on top of everything. Louis carries the box and a side table up to the roof, sets them between the chairs.

Another time check shows that he has just enough to spare for popping into one of the neighbourhood markets, where he picks up some fruits, cheese and crackers, and, on a whim when he gets to the cashier, two Kinder Surprises.

Louis walks out with his purchases, carrier bag swinging at his side, biting down a smile as he carries on down the street to Harry's patisserie, already several notches too excited. When he pokes his head in the door, Harry's just hanging up his apron and saying goodbye to the dark-haired woman who's replaced him behind the counter. Noticing Louis standing outside the door as he pulls on his jacket, Harry smiles with dimples deepening on both sides. The woman, obviously not bothered about being subtle, glances over Louis and gives Harry a big nod of approval. Louis winks at her.

"What's in the bag?" Harry asks when he joins Louis out in the street.

"Guess," Louis says, leading the way by walking backwards so he can look Harry full in the face the whole time, trusting Harry won't let him get run over by any wayward traffic.

Harry takes a moment. "Your eternal friendship. The Shroud of Turin. Children's wishes?" he gasps. When Louis calls him utterly ridiculous, he pretends to think for another minute, then looks at Louis with grave concern. "Louis, is it the severed heads of your enemies?"

Tutting, Louis says, "No, don't be silly, those are kept safely behind glass in a temperature-controlled room."

They reach Louis' flat a few minutes later laughing at something equally inane, and Louis takes him up in the lift, a creaky old thing that probably never in its life has looked presentable. "It's this or walking up seven flights of stairs," Louis says, his mouth screwing downwards at the sight of a rudimentary penis scratched into the surface above the button panel.

"I wouldn't have minded," Harry says, and points at another etching of a heart with a pair of initials inside it totting up to _4eva_. "This one's nice. I hope they're still going."

From the seventh floor, it's another, short flight of stairs to the roof. Louis unlocks the door to the rooftop, gesturing with a chivalrous sweep of his hand that Harry go first. His eyes are bright in the afternoon sunlight, and he looks from Louis' face to the deck chairs and back again with a widening smile.

"It's not much, I know," Louis says, angling a hand over his eyes when a sunbeam hits his face, "but it's a nice view, at least."

"I like it," Harry says. His gaze sweeps over the rooftop, and it's like he doesn't see the cracks and wet patches at all, the way his smile keeps growing.

The side table is on the small side, a bit cramped for space, but they get the food and plates out and divvy up the cheese and crackers. Harry unzips his jacket to polish two red apples on his shirt, proudly presents one to Louis. Between them, they share the thermos of tea, passing the screw-on cap back and forth rather than fussing with more cups, and wrap themselves in the afghans to ward off the wind. They pick up an easy flow of desultory chatter that doesn't ebb, and Harry gasps when Louis hands him a Kinder egg for afters.

"I haven't had these in _ages_ ," Harry says, unwrapping it with eager fingers. "Brilliant. This is the _best_ date."

A cheer goes up in Louis' head, high fives all around for his clever brain cells. It's abruptly silenced when Harry fits his mouth over the top of the chocolate egg to bite it open, his lips just the perfect shape for-- _Look away, look away, look away_. He tries, he fails, and Harry's eyes flick up to his for a second, and is Harry doing it on purpose? Louis feels something stir deep inside him, and is glad to have the afghan over his lap. Jesus.

Louis concentrates on his own egg, tearing off the foil wrapping in deliberate strips, considers offering it to Harry to see if he'll do that thing again with his mouth.

Harry's already eaten all of his chocolate, and is waiting for Louis to do the same so they can open their little plastic containers simultaneously. Louis breaks his chocolate on the seam and offers one half to Harry, who accepts it with a soft, happy noise, popping the whole piece in his mouth. Louis wants to kiss him.

"Ready?" Louis asks, once the chocolate has gone, and they're both sitting up with their yellow containers in hand, like they're about to do a fast draw.

Harry nods, counts them down, and they pop open their Kinder Surprises at the same time. His face is pure delight as he shows Louis his toy, a fuzzy, green gorilla that he immediately christens Wendell. Louis gets to put together a yellow racecar, and they enact a never-before-seen _King Kong_ knock-off in which Wendell the peace-loving gorilla is menaced by hotshot Formula One racer Tomlin Lewison (so dedicated to his craft that he never gets out of his car) over a misunderstanding about some missing cheese. But through a series of contrivances and shared tragedy, they become best friends and go on to have hundreds of adventures together, including a very special on-location episode where they visit New York City -- or, as Harry calls it, pointing to Louis' as yet uneaten apple, _the Big Apple, get it?_

"Get it?" Harry says again, his face an exact replica of the emoticon colon capital D.

"Oh my god," Louis groans. 

Harry laughs, well pleased with himself. The sun's going behind the clouds now, and Harry wraps the blanket tighter around his legs, tucking Wendell into his jacket's breast pocket, only eyes visible, so he will stay warm as well.

The car continues aimless figure eights on the side table while Louis asks, "So this cheffing thing. What's the story there?"

"You mean, like, why I do what I do?" At Louis' nod, Harry says slowly, squinting into the distant treetops, "Always liked cooking. And baking. I don't know, there's something so satisfying about making something with your own two hands, and putting all your heart and soul into it and having it come out beautiful. And food always makes people happy, you know?" Harry takes a breath, looks at Louis with a soft smile on his face. "I like that, I like it when people are happy."

Louis smiles, his heart so full it's pressing on the walls of his chest. "I can't believe you exist," he says quietly, thinking of Marjorie. "You're so… so good. Like, _kind_ , you know? Not very many people are kind anymore, I don't think."

"They are," Harry says. "Just got to give them a chance to show it."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so Louis reaches over and drives his little yellow car up Harry's arm. Harry catches his vrooming hand and just… doesn't let go. Louis tries to hide a smile in his shoulder.

"So this acting thing," Harry says.

Louis has never been able to answer this question in any satisfactory way. It's just his life. "It's like… I know what it's like in my own head, but with a character, right, you sort of have to pick apart why they are the way they are. And it's sort of just fascinating getting to the point where I can find something in myself to be that person, even if the character's really, like, this awful piece of shit person, I have to figure out why I'm like that and how I got there, and love myself in some way even if the whole world doesn't," Louis says, struggling to find the core of what he's trying to say. But he feels like he's rambling, so he finishes with, "Sorry, am I making sense? I don't think I am."

Harry squeezes his hand. "You are."

If he's lying, he's great at hiding it, so Louis takes it as it is.

"I dated an actor once, like, a year ago, wasn't very serious," Harry says, breaking a cardinal rule of first dates, but Louis thinks making up epic stories about gorillas and racecar drivers isn't typical of first dates either, so he'll let it pass. "Said he was an actor because when he got famous, he could use his fame to do tonnes of charitable work. Don't think that was _quite_ true."

Louis chuckles. "No, fact is, we just like being applauded and admired. Very soothing to the ego. We're inherently selfish, as a rule, actors. You should probably stay away from us."

"Don't want to," says Harry, brushing his thumb over Louis' in a way that sends a shiver skittering over his skin.

"Good," says Louis, his gaze dropping to Harry's mouth.

They smile at each other, physically unable to keep it off their faces, and if this were a scene in a movie, right, here's where the music would swell and the setting sun would highlight their profiles as they drew inexorably closer. But Louis' life is not a romance film, and that's why he feels the splat of a fat raindrop on his cheek, followed closely by another that flattens itself on his nose.

"Oh," says Harry, holding his palm out. In answer, the clouds burst open and empty everything they've got. "Shit."

"Fucking England," Louis shouts, hastily gathering their makeshift picnic things and dumping them into the box while rain spatters in a torrent all around them.

Together they manage to grab everything, Harry crumpling both afghans into squelchy balls under one arm and hoisting the side table over his shoulder. They scramble to the roof door and scurry inside, soaked to the skin and dripping everywhere.

Harry laughs all the way down to the third floor.

"It's not funny, Harold," Louis says, though he can't help but join in.

He lets them into his flat, which is, predictably, a mess, as he hadn't been planning on inviting anyone in, but Harry's already been here once, uninvited, and he hadn't minded then, just like he doesn't really seem to mind now.

Harry sets the side table down and says of the wet blankets, "Er, what should I do with these?"

"I don't know, put them on the floor?" Louis says. He will deal with it later. He peels off his jacket and flings it on top of the afghans, most of his shirt clamming to his skin. "Fuck, I'll get us some towels. And I've a sweatshirt you can borrow, too."

As he squelches to the bathroom to find clean and, more importantly, dry towels, he hears Harry lament, "Oh, Wendell's got wet, too."

Louis slings his bath towel over a shoulder and locates his spare one for Harry, grabs an oversized hoodie from his closet that he thinks will fit. He returns to Harry, handing over the towel, and Harry bends over, rubs it vigorously through his hair. Holding the sweatshirt out to him, Louis has plans to say _the bathroom's just over there_ , but the words die in his throat before they even hit his tongue because apparently Harry does not wait for bathrooms to become available before stripping his top off.

He should look away, should preserve some semblance of modesty, probably, though he can't really think of a reason why. It does not seem like that good an idea, honestly. What seems like a good idea is focusing on Harry's lean, bare torso and, good god, the tattoos. Shit, fuck, _hot_.

Harry, dabbing the damp off his skin, only now seems to notice Louis' staring. A glint appears in his eye, and then something much darker that steals the breath right out from Louis' lungs as his gaze rakes over the soaked fabric clinging to Louis' body. Harry bites his lip.

"You're, er-- You should probably..." Harry says, like he's trying out words for the first time. He swallows thickly. He puts the towel aside and takes Louis' off him as well. Harry reaches tentatively for the hem of Louis' wet shirt. "Can I… help you with that?"

"Yes," says Louis; it comes out a lot raspier than he'd intended, and oh, what is happening? He knows what is happening, and he would very, very much like it to keep happening.

Harry lifts Louis' shirt and slides it off his body, leaving goosebumps in its wake that Harry warms down with his hands, drifting to the small of Louis' back as they step closer together. Louis' hands settle around Harry's hips, one of his thumbs pressing underneath the jut of his hipbone.

Time slows to let him savour this moment, the shuddering warmth of Harry's breath across his skin, the tension that holds the inch of space between them, the question in Harry's eyes, the searing want in Louis' chest.

Louis presses forward, keeps pressing until Harry's backed into the door. Their mouths find each other, fiery hot, chasing and catching each other, one kiss running into the next. It's easily the best kiss he's ever had, and Harry's easily the best boy he's ever known, and fuck, he just wants everything of him and everything for him.

Harry's hands slide low, curving over Louis' bum, and pull him in tight, and Jesus, the first pass of friction alone might kill him, he's already so hard for Harry. Louis curls his hips into Harry's, once, twice, and the _Louis_ it wrenches from Harry's throat is so wrecked Louis could come right into it.

"God," Louis says, and sucks at the soft skin just below his jaw. "Fuck, Harry, you're--"

Harry's phone rings. And rings. And fucking rings. When Harry leaves it to go to voicemail, the ringing stops for a blessed two seconds, just enough time for Louis to kiss him hard again, but that's all he gets before the phone goes off once more. Louis whines into Harry's chest.

With a huff of frustration, Harry pulls his phone out of his back pocket. Looking at the caller ID on his display, Harry frowns and answers. "Barbara?" he says, with a hitch in his voice as Louis idly licks a nipple; it's just there, what else is Louis supposed to do? "No, I-- Oh no. Okay." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. On the exhale, he says, "Yeah, I… I can come in. No worries. You take care of you, okay? Lots of tea and rest."

As Harry hangs up, Louis pulls away with a sigh.

"I have to go," Harry says, reluctance in his voice, longing in his eyes as he stares at Louis' mouth. "One of my co-workers, Barbara, she's taken ill and needs someone to cover the rest of her shift."

"No, fuck. Why? Shit," Louis groans. He sighs again, knowing Harry's not going to leave the patisserie in the lurch. He runs a glum finger down Harry's side. "Fine."

Harry can't help smiling at him. "That was the whole five stages of loss, right there."

"I am _bereft_ ," Louis insists. He tugs at a belt loop on Harry's jeans, like this will help him make his point.

"Make it up to you another time?" Harry murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

Louis leans into it, then has to bodily push Harry away because he can't be held responsible for strapping Harry to his headboard if he doesn't leave in the next ten seconds. "You'd fucking better."

Pulling on the sweatshirt Louis' offered him, Harry tugs up the collar to his nose. "Smells like you," he says happily.

It is, inexplicably, one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to Louis. "Get out of here," Louis says, feeling his cheeks burn. "Go and save your bakery."

"Okay," says Harry. He kisses Louis on the cheek and throws a parting smile over his shoulder as he leaves.

Louis shuts the door once he can't hear Harry's footsteps on the stair anymore. He considers his state of dishabille, and the rise and fall of his chest, his lungs still overburdened with the exertion of needing Harry _right now_. Louis strips off the rest of his wet clothes and heads to the shower for a furious wank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [mystardustmelody](http://www.mystardustmelody.tumblr.com) for the beta! <333


	3. Chapter 3

He hadn't intended on seeing Harry today. He has the opening performance tonight and it's really best if he doesn't have any distractions pulling at him. But, surprise of the century, Louis can't stay away, his limbs jittery and fizzing with restive energy from the moment he gets up until he decides he'll stop in at the patisserie before heading in for warm-ups. He should probably be concerned about how much of a hold Harry has over him, but the thought doesn't stick.

Louis spends most of his day doing prep work in his head, mentally creating the space of the stage, imagining his scenes in short bursts. He recites lines that aren't his, because he can, and because there's always the possibility that someone might need a line or an entire passage fed to them. It's happened to him before -- thankfully, never during his professional tenure, but in school, when someone in the audience had sneezed so violently in the middle of one of his lines that it had blown his carefully memorised words straight out of his head. Theatre's a living, breathing, unpredictable beast, but Louis has his tricks to keep it calm. Or at least, that's what he tells himself.

Leigh Anne texts him to see if he wants to do an early, light dinner together beforehand, and Louis accepts gratefully.

After getting dressed and finishing a short phone call with the house manager about his comps, Louis grabs his things and pops next door. "If I got you and Niall tickets to tomorrow's matinee," he says, when Zayn lets him in, "would you come?"

"Of course," Zayn says.

"Good, 'cos I already got you tickets," Louis says, grinning. "You just have to tell the box office your name."

He's plied with tea because Zayn is a good host who also asks, "How was yesterday?"

An instant, involuntary smile appears on Louis' face. "Great," he says, and he has a thousand more things to say about Harry and how fucking smitten he is and the way Harry blithely goes along with his stupid ideas and how sweet he is even to inanimate gorilla objects and the incredible range of goofy to sexy that Harry can call on in a snap. Louis doesn't say any of those things, because a) he'll never stop talking, and b) he kind of doesn't want to share Harry; this is all his. Instead Louis says, "See? I can do that monosyllabic, mysterious thing you do. It's working for me. Totally working, right? I'm good at this."

"Doesn't work if you don't shut up about it," Zayn says with a disapproving eyebrow.

"Shut up about what?" comes Niall's voice from the door. He's apparently just sauntering in to work now, at half-two, with a Starbucks carrier and one earbud hanging from his left ear. He puts the coffees down, hands one to Zayn, and says to Louis, "Didn't know you'd be over; would've got you something."

Louis waves a hand. "You feed me enough as it is."

"So… what won't you shut up about?" Niall asks again.

"He's in love," Zayn says, a twitch to his face like Louis' been stricken with something horrible and syphilitic. The twitch turns into a mischievous smirk; it's a good look on him, except when it's directed at Louis. "Ask him about yesterday."

It is asked in the form of a waggle dance of Niall's eyebrows.

"It was nice," Louis says pleasantly. "I liked it."

" _And?_ " Niall prompts.

"That's all," Louis says airily. He heads towards the door, heedless of Niall's censorious tutting trailing behind him. "Off to work. You're coming to my play tomorrow, by the way. Be appropriate."

"Like hell I will." As Louis strolls out the door and down the stairs, Niall yells after him, "Break all your legs tonight!"

Louis intends to. He is so ready. He loves this part and he loves this production, and it's going to be fantastic. There'll be critics in the audience tonight, but he's not going to think about them except to imagine that they'll fall over themselves with awe at his performance. Yes, good.

He has a bit of time before he has to meet Leigh Anne, so Louis ambles along towards the patisserie, except he's so used to rushing that he can't keep up a very good ambling pace for long. When he gets there, Harry's face splits into a blinding grin that he has to bite down almost immediately, like he's afraid it might get too big for his face to carry. The customer he's busy with gets probably the friendliest service in all of history.

Once the customer's been taken care of, Louis approaches the counter. "Hello, young man," he says. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Hi," says Harry, with a look so soft Louis could just curl up in it.

"Hey, so, I know this is a bit last-minute, er," Louis says, swallowing a sudden seed of doubt,  "but the theatre gives me a few free tickets for, like, family and friends or whatever, and we're doing a matinee tomorrow, so it wouldn't be past your bedtime. I mean, not that you're obligated to come or anything, but--"

It's not the same asking Harry as it is Niall and Zayn. What the other boys will see is Louis having a lark on stage, and they'll probably poke fun at his costume a bit, which is essentially a glossy bodysuit (that he carries off with remarkable aplomb, thank you). What Harry will see is Louis putting his heart on display for hundreds of people at once, and the thought of it makes Louis feel ten times more exposed than a skintight costume. He wants Harry to see him shine, and be proud of him.

"I'd love to. Of course, I'll be there," Harry says.

"Okay," Louis says, smiling, much lighter in the chest now. "And Zayn and Niall are invited, too, so you don't have to sit by yourself or anything. They promised to behave. At least, Zayn'll behave."

Harry laughs. "I'll sit on Niall if I have to," he promises gravely. "And while we're talking about really important things, can I have your number? Feels like I should've got it ages ago."

For such a small thing, when they've already been on a date and almost had sex (probably), the thrill it sends pirouetting through Louis can only be described as absurd. "Only if you're prepared to get texted about fifty times a day. I have many deep thoughts, and I like to share the wealth," Louis says, and gets his mobile out his pocket. "Also, pictures of weird people I see on the street. And, like, maybe once in a while, a dick."

"Sign me up," Harry says, slapping a vehement hand on the counter.

Louis gives Harry his phone number, and Harry programs it into his own phone, then immediately texts Louis with _:)))))))))_.

"That's a lot of chins," Louis says, saving Harry's contact. "You calling me fat?"

"I'm saying that's how happy I am when I'm around you," Harry says.

Just what is Louis supposed to do with that when his heart feels so big it might just break his chest? "Smooth," he says, reaching over to touch his fingertip to Harry's pinky where his hand sits on the counter. "And for the record, I don't think I've been happier with anyone else, myself."

"Well, sorted, aren't we?" Harry says, just a hint of teeth showing through his smile.

"I'd say so." Louis gives Harry's pinky a little tug, and it is truly a struggle not to leap over the till between them to kiss him. Checking the time with a sigh, he says, "I've got to go, and like, do a play or something, but I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"I'll be here, pining away."

It takes a few more almost-goodbyes before Louis tears himself away and heads to dinner at a cafe near the theatre with Leigh Anne, and as it turns out, Olly as well. They steer clear of shop talk, and have an aimless chat about the last episode of the _Great British Bake-Off_ , which Louis hasn't seen, but doesn't need to, given Olly's beat-by-beat reenactment of one of the contestants' possible attempt at sabotaging the competition.

After dinner, they walk together to the theatre, making sure to check in with Eleanor and assure her that her recurring nightmare of half the cast not showing up isn't prophetic. Louis finds a corner to run through stretches and a full vocal warm-up, and says his lines to Perrie, their resident makeup artist, while she paints his face an iridescent white so soft it seems almost translucent. In the middle of his _full fathom five_ song, Louis' phone vibrates on the makeup table with an incoming text.

It's Harry asking, _When's your next day off?_

Intrigued, Louis types, _Tuesday, why?_

_NO REASON_ , is Harry's not-at-all shifty response, making Louis laugh out loud, and Perrie has to yank her hand back to avoid smudging his face. "Sorry, love," he says.

"Boyfriend, is it?" she asks indulgently, tucking a long strand of lilac hair behind her ear as she leans in again to continue her artwork.

"Something like that," Louis says. He's not a hundred percent sure, but he's got a good feeling about the _boyfriend_ thing. The makeup is almost done, artful, gradient sweeps of silvery blues like wings from the corners of his eyes; his hair still needs gelling up, but otherwise he's Ariel all the way. He coaxes Perrie into frame for a selfie, sends it to Harry.

_Perrie made me pretty and wants to know if you're my boyfriend_ , accompanies the photo a hesitant second later.

Harry's reply is almost instant. _Gorgeous to begin with and she can't have you if that's what she's asking._

"No, it is not," says Perrie, making no attempts at subtlety as she obscures Louis' view of his phone with her head to read the text. "I like my men straight, for some reason."

"Will we never understand each other, Pez?" Louis sighs.

"It is," says Perrie, brushing the finishing touches on, "our generation's greatest tragedy. Okay, shoo, you're done."

Louis thanks her graciously, and goes through the rest of the pre-performance motions, gets his hair done up, more warm-ups with Leigh Anne, a pep talk from James, easing the flutter in his belly when they're told that the house is open.

The curtain rises, and they're off and running.

 

***

The reviews are in. At least, that's what Louis is told, from the call he gets at the crack of dawn (or 9:38AM, according to his phone) from his mum all the way from Doncaster to tell him about the _Guardian_ review she's read online. They've called his performance effective and spirited (pun ambiguously intended?); it's the only line in which Louis or his character is mentioned, but it's a brilliant start.

It gets better when he pops in to Harry's patisserie and Harry proudly shows him the new lockscreen on his phone, a production photo of Louis onstage in costume.

"That's my boyfriend," Harry informs him.

Louis grins, liking the sound of it. "Looks like a twat in a unitard."

"He isn't. He's…" Harry says, pulling from a shelf under the counter a large stack of the day's newspapers. It looks like he's cleared the next door's newsagent's out of every single publication in existence. Opening one of them to the _Arts_ section and snapping the pages straight, he reads, clearing his throat, "... _a memorable Ariel, played by a suitably impish Louis Tomlinson, whose agility makes his acrobatic stunts look easy._ "

"It doesn't really say that," Louis says, suspicious.

"It does. They're all like that." Harry hands the paper over, and then pushes the whole stack towards Louis. "You, my friend, are a star."

"Wait, I got downgraded to friend?"

Harry laughs. "No, you didn't, boyfriend."

"Thank you, boyfriend." This won't get old.

He can't stay long, just like every other day, so Louis sets off, promising to see Harry backstage after the show. At the theatre, the cast and crew have a ten-minute celebratory dance party to the myriad of positive reviews that have come in overnight, then it's business as usual for their second performance.

After their final bows, Louis scurries back to his dressing room. It's basically a medium-sized closet with aspirations to become an actual room when it grows up, but it's his for the duration of the run, and he loves it because it's his. There's even a piece of paper with his name on it scotch-taped to the door, official-like. Louis peels off his costume and hangs it up carefully -- generally not wise to risk anyone's wrath with costumes on the floor or slung over the back of a chair -- trades it for joggers and an old t-shirt with a low enough collar that he won't ruin his makeup and hair slipping into or out of it. The makeup stays on; no point it taking it off only to have to put it on again for the evening show.

He's just pulled out his phone to check for messages or cries for help from lost friends when there's a knock at his door. "Enter," he calls out imperiously.

The stage door security manager sticks his head in. "Got some friends of yours."

Harry, Niall, and Zayn are ushered inside with thanks to the security, and Louis gives them a cheer and a group hug. "No troubles getting in, then?" he asks, somehow, while he's squashed in the middle and an unidentified shoulder's jammed against his neck; it's lovely as can be.

"All good," says Zayn. "Gave our names and he already had them on his list."

"Yeah, and like, you're famous or something," Niall says, bemusement written all over his face, "'cos this girl outside the stage door died on the spot when she heard us tell Alberto we were on Louis Tomlinson's invite list. _Died_."

"Sounds messy," Louis says, but it's a really nice surprise to know he has a fan (presumably and hopefully still alive), after only two shows. Part of him suspects she may have mixed him up with someone actually famous; he has vague concerns about her mental well-being.

Niall shows him a ticket stub. "She sort of made us promise to get your autograph for her?" he says, looking as bewildered as Louis feels; he's had people talk to him after shows at stage doors before, assuming he's even recognised as part of the cast at all, but this is new.

His pen hovers over the ticket stub for an uncertain moment. Louis scribbles his name on it and adds a smiley face, and is an _X_ too much? He hands it back to Niall before he can add any more decorations; he has a feeling normal autographs don't have, like, stick figures in them.

Harry tugs at his elbow, eyes shining. "You were so good, Lou."

"Yeah, ace," Zayn agrees.

"Don't like Shakespeare, but you made it, like, tolerable," Niall says, a smirk undercutting his words. "No, but bro, you were really good. When you first appeared, hanging from underneath that stair-balcony thing, right, Harry-- Shh, I'm telling him a story. Harry, no lie, full-on _gasped_. So embarrassing, can't take him anywhere." He cackles.

Pink, Harry mumbles helplessly, "You just looked so beautiful."

Speaking of beautiful. "Thank you, boyfriend," Louis says softly, curling one finger around Harry's.

"Think that's our cue to leave," Zayn says, a slightly worried pucker forming between his eyebrows. "Not sure I like where this is going, those looks on your faces." He's not wrong, per se; Louis is very much interested in doing more than holding fingers with Harry.

"Don't tire him out," Niall says to Harry. "He still has the eight o'clock show to do."

"All right, you can get out now," Louis laughs, but he accepts more hugs and thumps on the back before they leave.

At the click of the door closing behind Niall and Zayn's departure, Harry sidles up to him with a hint of a sway to his hips, settles his hands over Louis' waist. "Been wanting to kiss you for ages," he says, brushing a feather-light touch to Louis' lips.

A low whine tickles the back of Louis' throat as Harry presses in, urgency building. His hips are already starting a slow cant against Harry's. When did this happen, when did he become fourteen again, instantly going hard at just the promise of a touch? He catches Harry's lower lip between his teeth, sucks it in, feels a groan start in Harry's chest and travel out his mouth, where Louis swallows the sound.

He's dimly aware that his pristine makeup is not going to make it out of this alive, but fuck it. He'll just buy Perrie a giant frappuccino and a personal whipped cream machine for the extra work she has to do on him, or a massive yacht, whatever; she can have all his assets transferred to her name as long as he can have Harry right now.

"Want you so much," Louis says, against the shell of Harry's ear as Harry dips down to graze his teeth along his collarbone, then nudges Harry up so he can kiss him again.

It takes a moment for Harry to focus when Louis pulls back to catch his breath, but when he does, the corner of his mouth lifts, drawing a dimple in. He curls two fists at the hem of Louis' shirt. "Can I help you with this?"

Louis laughs quietly. "If you promise to finish what you start this time."

"I didn't start it," Harry says in low tones, gathers the fabric in a bunch and drags it off Louis in one smooth pull. His hands are on Louis' skin at once, imprinting their marks like a brand.

"You stripped," Louis says, pushing Harry's jacket off his shoulders, moving right along to the buttons of the plaid shirt underneath it, "in the middle of my living room, you tart."

When Harry's shirt has gone, Louis pinches one of his nipples, and he draws in a sharp breath. Harry crowds against Louis till they're stopped by a wall, dipping in to kiss him hard, his tongue pushing into Louis' mouth. As he moves on to Louis' neck, he says, "I was wet."

For a second, Louis has no idea what he's talking about, the edges of his brain gone hazy with the sweet-sour sensation of Harry sucking a bruise along the cords of his neck. "You looked like--" Louis starts, but a gasp overtakes him as the hard curve of Harry's cock presses into his hip, slides against it. "You looked like you belonged in a porn film. Wet, and hot, and fuck. Fuck, Harry."

"Yes, please," Harry says, and if he's in a state of mind still capable enough to make a stupid joke like this, clearly Louis is doing something wrong.

Louis slants his body until they're aligned, rubbing his cock against Harry's, thick with friction. A surprised groan stutters out of Harry's mouth, a string of filthy words tumbling out right behind it, and he palms Louis' arse, pulls him closer.

"What do you want, Harry?" Louis asks. The air between them is hot, their mouths open with harsh breaths juddering past their lips, and Louis thinks he could come from just this, just Harry like this.

"Want--" Harry says, the words jerked out of him in fits and starts, as Louis grinds their hips together, "want you, want you in my mouth." He kisses Louis, it's messy and hot, and he looks at Louis like he's never been more desperate for anything in his life. "I want to get on my knees and make you come in my mouth."

"Jesus Christ," Louis grates.

Harry takes it as a yes, and drifts down Louis' body, eases his fingers underneath the elastic of Louis' joggers and pulls down. He presses his face into the crease where hip meets thigh, breathes in and kisses the skin there, his cheek a smooth slide against Louis' cock. Bracing Louis against the wall with one hand on his hip, Harry wraps a loose fist around the base of his cock, gives it a light stroke that sends crackles of lightning up his body.

"Fuck, Harry, please." His voice splinters somewhere in the middle, but fuck, who cares, when Harry's on his knees like this for him?

Needing no more encouragement, Harry sucks Louis' cock into his mouth, taking almost all of it at once. The sight of it is unreal, Harry's lush pink lips on him, and the scorching heat of Harry's mouth excruciatingly good. Harry pulls back slightly, his tongue curling and circling over the head, and Louis watches with glazed eyes his length disappearing into Harry's mouth again and again until it hits the back of his throat. A soft moan is released into the air, and Louis can't tell who it came from.

Louis bends his head back, the wall behind him the only real and solid thing anymore, he thinks, his hands scrabbling against it. He wants to drive his fingers into Harry's hair, feel the flex of the muscles in his neck as he pulls and pulls Louis towards the edge.

It doesn't even sound like him when he manages to get out, "Harry," and _fuck, fuck, fuck, his boy, so good_ that he maybe says out loud, but it's hard to hear past the roaring in his ears because Harry's mouth, god, Harry's gorgeous mouth.

Sparks start to flare in little bursts at the base of his spine, and Harry drives on, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks Louis' cock down, every last inch, his lips red and shiny. He slides a hand between Louis' legs and palms his balls, and whatever has been holding Louis up until now cracks, and Louis just has enough time to give warning before the sparks blaze into a wildfire and he's spilling down Harry's throat.

Harry doesn't let him go until Louis is emptied, then pulls off with a crooked smile, heat still in his eyes as he watches Louis all but collapse to the floor.

Louis pushes Harry back onto his haunches, brackets him in with knees on either side. Gathering whatever faculties he miraculously has left, he jerks open the flies on Harry's jeans and pushes them down his thighs. Still hard, Harry breathes noisily through gritted teeth as Louis rubs his palm up the length of his cock.

"You were so good," Louis rasps, working his thumb over the wet slit. "So good, baby."

Letting out the tiniest whimper, Harry presses his forehead against Louis'.

Their mouths meet, brushing past repeatedly, but Louis doesn't kiss him. Instead, he keeps talking. "Wish you could see what it looks like, Harry, your beautiful mouth on my cock, dirty as fuck," he says. Louis curls his fingers over Harry's smooth shaft and strips it rough. He hears Harry's breath sharpen. "Love your mouth on me."

Harry wraps his hand around the back of Louis' neck, his mouth open, strained and soundless, his eyes locked on Louis'. Every line of his body is taut, close to breaking.

"Come on, baby," Louis whispers against Harry's skin. "Want you to come, want you to come all over, want to lick it off you."

Harry does as he's told. Louis holds him close as he lets out a barely audible, convulsing breath, hot come spilling over Louis' hand.

When Harry's breathing starts to even, Louis kisses him softly. He drags himself over to the dressing table and grabs a packet of makeup removal wipes; they'll do. He cleans his hand, and the few drops that landed on Harry's stomach.

"Fuck," Harry breathes, glassy-eyed. He smiles a goofy, sleepy smile at Louis that all at once shatters Louis' heart and patches it back together again.

Slowly, they gather their strewn clothes and put them on again. Louis was right, glancing in the lighted mirror, his makeup's entirely ruined, and Harry's face is looking extra shimmery, in fact. More makeup wipes for both of them, and more smiling from Harry that just makes Louis want to do it all over again.

"You want to see the set a bit? Or, like, backstage?" Louis asks after a while.

"Yeah, love to," Harry says.

There's no guarantee that he can show Harry everything; with the evening show on their heels, the techies might be working on bits of the stage. There had been a couple of cues that he knows they weren't altogether happy with during the matinee showing.

Louis holds out his hand. "Come on, then."

He leads them out the dressing room and to the backstage area. The monitors are off, but he explains what they're for. They don't go on the stage proper; Louis can see a few of the techs up in the booth fiddling with a couple of lights and he's not going to get in the middle of them working. Instead, they stand in the wings as Louis tells him the story of how Olly nearly gave himself a concussion on that beam there. Harry listens intently, a half-smile on his face the whole time, like he can't get enough of stories about people he has never met. It makes Louis want to kiss him so much.

"Here," Louis says, when he's talked enough about the set, "I should take you to meet Pez." The reasons are twofold; one, he thinks Perrie and Harry would like each other, and two, with a civilian witness on scene, Perrie might not hit him for completely ruining his makeup. 

As they walk towards the makeup area, a voice behind them says, "Harry? Harry Styles, is that you?"

Harry turns, eyes wide. "Oh! Max, hey," he says, his voice every bit as friendly as ever, but Louis thinks his arms are a little stiff when fucking Max slides in for a hug. "How are you? Really nice job out there, by the way."

He quite disagrees, as Max is one of those perpetual offenders of upstaging, but Louis keeps his comments to himself. Fucking Max isn't acknowledging him anyway, and if he were, he'd get a scowl.

"Haven't seen you in forever. Oh my god, you look so good," says fucking Max, whose white smile would be nice, really -- attractive, even -- if it wasn't attached to the rest of him. He nudges Harry in the bicep, halfway between a punch and a caress. "Miss you, babe."

It's said in a matey, offhand tone, but Louis' eyes snap up.

Harry shrugs, oblivious. "Busy, you know."

"Yeah? You still doing that cooking school thing?" Max asks, and takes a long, slow drink from his Evian bottle, eyes anchored on Harry, and Louis' played this game long enough to know it's for effect. He cannot quite decide whether to roll his eyes or smack the bottle out of fucking Max's hand, so Louis settles for radiating unadulterated loathing.

"Done with culinary school, actually," Harry says. "I'm a proper pastry chef now. Got a hat and everything. And I do some private jobs on the side as well."

"That's brilliant, mate. Your baking was always the best," says Max. For the first time in this whole exchange, he looks at Louis with glinting eyes, and there's something biting in his smile as he says, "He used to make this _amazing_ brioche. Remember, Harry, you made it for me for breakfast once?"

Louis does not ram his fist between fucking Max's eyes. It would be impolite. Instead, he says evenly, "Harry has very talented hands."

A smile of agreement curves fucking Max's mouth as he takes another swig of water. "That he does. Anyway, I've gotta get going, grab a bite before the next show. It's great to see you, Harry. We should go down the pub sometime, catch up properly," he says, shouldering his way between Louis and Harry to head out the stage door, as if there's no other way to get around them, his hand brushing Harry's arm as he passes. "You do look really good, by the way. Like the hair."

Harry watches him go, a slightly confused line between his eyebrows. "Bye."

Now that it's been said, Louis notices. "You've got some of my facepaint in your hair."

The line deepens as Harry runs his fingers over the hair near his temple, and they come away smudged with glittering white. "Oops, how did that get there?" he says, with a grin.

Louis wants to return it, he really does, but there's something ugly bubbling low in his belly, and all he says is, "Let's go and find Perrie."

He's right, as usual; with Harry standing there being all smiley and charming and Harry, Perrie gives Louis only the minutest look of annoyance at having to do his complex makeup all over again, and even then it's bolstered with fondness. Pez and Harry make easy small talk, and it's a good thing they can, because Louis is of no help, his brain stuck on a hideous replay of _Remember, Harry, you made it for me for breakfast?_ The implications are easy to reach, even without the image of fucking Max's smirking face to propel Louis' conclusions along. He wants to kick something, preferably fucking Max's teeth in.

"Oi, grumpy," Perrie says, pinching Louis' arm and startling him back into the room. "When you're done scowling at nothing over there, you can come back in a hour to get your makeup done. Again."

"Right, yeah, sorry," Louis says, and avoids Harry's questioning look.

Perrie puts on a coat, getting her hands under her hair to pull it out from the hooded collar, and draws the long strap of her handbag over a shoulder. "You want me to get you something? You know you have to eat before you go on again."

"Yeah, like, just a sandwich is good. Ta, love," Louis says, and busses her on the cheek before she goes, to assuage the small tide of guilt cresting inside him for essentially dropping a stranger in her lap and then sulking through the whole thing and letting everyone else do the heavy lifting.

The guilt doesn't go away, though; all it does is make the ponderous, sour feeling inside him weigh him down even more, latching claws into the noxious thoughts gaining traction in his head. _Fucking Max_.

Perrie exchanges nice-to-meet-yous with Harry, and when she's gone, Harry asks, tentative, "Are you okay?"

"I--" Louis doesn't want to start this here. The makeup area is a wide space, open, and anyone could just walk by and listen in. "Can we go back to my dressing room?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry says, a concerned frown pulling at his mouth.

Once they reach the room and the door's closed, Louis says, "You know Max. You used to date him?" Every successive word tumbling out his mouth is more horrible than the last. Fucking Max and Harry, together, god, what a travesty. _Remember, Harry, you made it for me for breakfast?_ Thinking of it makes his skin crawl. " _He's_ the actor you said you'd dated once?"

Harry nods. "Yeah," he says, and it comes out easily, nonchalant, which somehow makes it all the worse.

It's a small room, Louis' dressing room, and it's not made for satisfying pacing, but Louis paces, picking up resentment with each step. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"That I--? I didn't even know he was in this play," Harry says. The look on his face quite plainly shows he doesn't understand the edge to Louis' tone. "Didn't realise until I saw the programme. Why?"

"Well, you saw him on stage, and you saw me after that, you could've told me then," Louis fires at him. 

Harry shakes his head, his face a picture of bewilderment. "What," he sort of laughs, "like, while I was giving you a blowjob? I don't--"

"You could've said something," Louis persists, volume upping of its own accord.

Brow furrowed, Harry's shoulders lift up, at a loss. He opens his mouth, but before anything comes out, misgiving slants into his eyes, like something's clicked. His jaw shifts. "What exactly are you asking me, Lou?"

"I don't know," Louis snaps. "It's fucking Max, and he's biggest arsewipe on the face of the entire earth, do you understand, he's the worst kind of-- And he used to--" Touch you. God, Louis can't even think of it without wanting to throw up in his mouth a little, that smug prick with his hands on Harry. He stops pacing. "Did you and him--?"

" _Louis_ ," Harry warns with a sharpness to his voice Louis has never heard before. "Don't."

He knows he shouldn't go there, he knows he has no right. It's just, it's just-- he's jealous. He's jealous of everyone who's ever been in Harry's life before him, who got to see Harry before he became the Harry he is today, the Harry that Louis' so desperately gone for. He can't say any of that, his throat's still burning with the thought of fucking Max fucking touching his Harry.

"It's just-- why did it have to be him? _Jesus_ , Harry."

"Look, I'm sorry you don't like him, but I dated him well before I even met you," Harry says, raking an agitated hand through his hair. "I mean, what do you even want? I can't change it. Do you want me to go back in time and not date him for you?"

" _Yes_ ," Louis says before he can even properly process the question.

Harry throws his hands up, his body spinning away from Louis like his ability to stand him has reached full capacity.

Wait. "Wait, no," Louis says, his head of steam lost now that he's run into his own brick wall. "I don't-- Harry."

"What?" Harry says, arms crossed now. His back is stiff, his mouth a thin, pressed line, a mouth that should always be smiling bright.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," says Louis when he realises in a blink that he's the fucking moron who's made Harry stop smiling. Why is he giving so many shits about fucking Max when Harry's not smiling? "Shit."

Harry waits.

"When he said… about you making breakfast for him, I just went-- mad." It sounds feeble even as he says it.

"I make breakfast for a lot of people. Louis, it's literally what I do for a living," Harry says. "And do you know what, I don't have to explain myself to you, like, any of it."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm just-- stupid for you, and it's making me do stupid things. I'm sorry, Harry, really," Louis says again, taking a tentative, placating step forward. "You're right, it's nothing to do with me."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, though he looks slightly off-kilter, as if he wasn't expecting Louis to come to his senses so quickly.

"I'm an idiot."

"You're an idiot," Harry says, but the angry crease between his eyebrows is much shallower now, and he lets Louis dismantle his defensive stance, the tension in his shoulders softening.

Louis folds their hands together. "I'm the worst kind of idiot. Always, always tell me when I am, okay?" he says, stroking his thumb over the back of Harry's hand. "I never want to be the reason you're not smiling."

"Okay," Harry says. The line in the middle of his brow smoothes away, and he wraps Louis into a big hug.

Louis relaxes into it, presses his face into the curve of Harry's shoulder. He breathes in the smell that's become the most comforting thing in the world, and says, "He is a massive twat, though."

" _Louis_."

"Too soon?"

Harry swats him on the bum. "I'm going home now," he says, but there's that smile on his face again, so Louis knows they're all right. "See you tomorrow?"

"Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where it's due: the lockscreen picture of Louis as Ariel is Louis' head pasted onto Colin Morgan's body. :) Colin did _The Tempest_ at The Globe in 2013.


	4. Chapter 4

The theatre's dark on Tuesdays, and Louis takes the opportunity to roll around in bed until it's logistically impossible for him to continue swaddling himself in blankets _and_ make it to his acting class on time. He texts Harry a grumpy good morning, feeling stupidly fuzzy when Harry replies with a selfie looking like sunshine incarnate even though he's been at the patisserie since four AM. He doesn't know how Harry does it; switch places, and Louis would've just jammed himself inside one of the industrial grade ovens by now.

Thankfully, all he has to do today is show up at the studio and hang in the back. He's only auditing today, to see if it'll be a good fit with the teacher for future workshops, but by the time the class is over, Louis' energised and reinvested in techniques he hasn't touched for a long time. On the Tube ride home, he thinks he might take up ballet again, too, when _The Tempest_ is over. Life feels, all in all, not total crap. He could get used to it. He tries not to think it very loudly, though, in case the universe hears him and takes it all back.

His mobile buzzes. _Are you home yet?_ asks Harry's text.

Louis surreptitiously snaps a photo of the man sitting opposite him and holding in his lap, for reasons that Louis can only assume involve world domination or sexual misadventure, a giant stuffed penguin. He replies no, that he's on the train, several stops away still, but that he and his fellow passengers are being held hostage by the penguin until his demands for fish are met. In return, Harry tells him a fish-related joke that makes Louis want to both repeatedly smack his phone against his head and gently pat Harry's.

It makes him smile, nonetheless, that he has Harry to groan at whenever he tells these ridiculous, bottom-of-the-barrel jokes that literally no one in history apart from Harry has ever found funny, purely because it means he has Harry. It's a trade-off, but he'll take it, gladly.

 _At Zayn's_ , is the next message he gets from Harry, just as Louis' walking into his building, so Louis heads straight there.

"Yo," says Niall when he opens the door. He has a bag of crisps in his hand, which he offers to Louis as he walks in. Louis snags a couple of crisps and finds Harry stretched out on the couch, his feet dangling over the edge, while Niall informs him that Zayn's asleep.

"I don't think I've ever met anyone who sleeps as much as he does," Louis says, sitting on Harry's legs; he doesn't really seem to mind, but does brush his fingers against Louis' arm. "Is he, like, part koala bear or something? Don't they sleep about twenty-three hours a day?"

"He's cuddlier than a koala," says Harry, thoughtfully.

Louis gasps. "Have you been having cuddles behind my back?"

"Literally all the time," Niall says, settling himself on the floor, cross-legged.

"That's not fair," Louis says, so he really shouldn't have expected anything less than both Harry and Niall tackling him at the same time.

Niall pushes off first after sufficient cuddles have been disbursed, so he can set up a video game -- it seems like he has the world's easiest job, babysitting someone who sleeps all day and seems to require little more than an occasional coffee and reminders to eat food, but Niall assures Louis that without him, Zayn's as good as lost in the wilderness. "He wouldn't even know how to cut off his own arm if he got trapped under a rock," Niall says, with a shake of the head, "like that guy who, you know, had to do that."

" _Nobody_ knows how," Louis says, aghast, as Harry, with a curious twist to his mouth, carefully types in _that guy who had to cut off his arm_ into the search bar on his phone's browser.

"Well, then, you're all fucked, aren't ye?" Niall says, offering the second controller to either one of them, whoever takes it first.

While Harry's busy reading with macabre interest about that guy who had to cut off his arm, Louis waves off the offer; he's too comfortable just sitting on Harry. Plus it leaves his hands free for touching Harry; it is that stage of their relationship, and Louis adores it.

"I don't understand what your CV looks like," Louis says, prodding his toes against the knobs of Niall's spine. 

Whapping at Louis' foot, Niall shrugs and starts the game. "It's impressive."

It takes all of ten minutes for Niall to realise Louis' the worst kind of backseat driver with the plethora of helpful advice he lavishes on Niall while he's just trying to shoot things, like _no no no you missed it go back_ and _nope wrong way_ and _what are you doing?_ Two minutes after that, Niall says, more than halfway to tetchy, "Harry, your boyfriend's out of control. Twist his nipples for me, I'm busy."

"Okay," Harry says absently, and reaches for Louis' general chest area.

Startled by his immediate acquiescence, Louis slaps his hand away, which gets a baby _ow_ out of Harry. He leans forward, close to Niall's face. "How did you get this power, and how may I forcibly steal it from you?"

"The world may never know," Niall says with the requisite wistfulness in his voice, and with the back of his hand, pushes Louis' face away.

"I do what I want," Harry pipes up, joining in the conversation about four seconds too late. He closes out of whatever he's looking at on his phone, probably something weird and abstract on Instagram, and taps Louis' forearm. "Time to go."

"Hm? Where?"

Harry smiles; Louis thinks he's trying to affect mysteriousness, but it comes out looking more like a five-year-old plotting to sneak a secret shake of his Christmas presents when his parents have gone to sleep. "It's a surprise," he says.

Louis nudges Niall in the back with his toes again. "Do you know anything about this?"

"Yah," Niall says, not bothering to turn around, "he's going to bake himself into a cake and pop out of it."

With an overly dramatic shushing, Harry says, "That's for his _birthday_. Ah, you've ruined it now."

"Just pop out something else, then," Niall suggests. He pauses the game in the middle of an explosion to have a proper think. "Get him one of them bouncy castles. That's a birthday. That is also what I want for my birthday. Not a hint, that's what I want. Get me that, please."

"You'll get an acquaintance baked inside a cake and you'll like it," says Harry.

Louis laughs while Harry picks up from the kitchen the large duffel bag Louis' come to recognise as his personal cheffing holdall, and ushers him out the flat, guiding him by the elbows, deposits him just outside his own front door.

"Er," says Louis.

"Surprise, welcome to your own flat," Harry says, grinning. "Where are your keys?"

"Wow, brilliant, brought to my very own flat," Louis says, laying it on thicker than tar. He slow claps Harry with insistent, unwarranted vigour. "You really outdid yourself, Harold. I mean, talk about a surprise. Did you see my face? Did you see this face? Surprised."

" _Keys_ ," Harry says, before Louis can go on for the next twenty years about it.

Unlocking the door, Louis pushes inside, and says, "So…"

Harry puts his bag down in the kitchen and says, looking a bit nervous now, "I'm making you dinner. Surprise."

Louis kisses the anxious look off his face. "I love it," he says, crooking one index finger around Harry's. "Isn't it a bit like you're working, though? I don't want you to have to be working for me."

Shaking his head, Harry says, "I like cooking, and I like you. I want to cook for you. Plus, like, you let me come and see you do what you love, so."

"Fair enough," Louis says, feeling a sweet little ache in his chest at how lovely Harry is. "Can I help? Mind you, my repertoire's pretty limited to, er, boiling water for tea and, like, Ready Brek. I _am_ quite an expert at ordering pizza, though. Have an app and everything."

Harry looks pained at this confession. "Good thing I'm here, then," he says, unearthing what looks like an entire shop's worth of cooking utensils and groceries from his clown car of a bag. "Save you from yourself."

"What, I get by," Louis says. He can also do toast. He's, like, a black belt in jam on toast. "That, by the way, was not a shitty attempt at trying to get out of helping. I'm just saying I have a very small set of skills."

What ends up happening is Louis taking up space on the counter, legs swinging and hitting a steady beat against the cupboards below, disturbing flakes off the already peeling paint, and occasionally swiping things from Harry's cutting board. "Quality control," he explains, eating a cherry tomato half. "You're doing a fine job, Harold. Keep it up."

It's a pleasure watching Harry work, the deft movements of his knife, the adept navigation between each and every part of the process, the concentration on his face as he surveys his progress at the hob. Eventually, Louis' legs stop kicking so he can't distract himself from following Harry's movements around the kitchen, feeling a smile work its way up his face and settle in for a long, comfortable stay.

"You're staring," Harry says as he stirs something on the stove.

"Can't help it," Louis says unapologetically. "Not going to stop."

Dinner, despite Louis' attempts at eating most of it before it's been cooked, is a beautiful, creamy risotto that Louis would like to live in. When they're done, Harry, who's somehow already got pudding almost ready when Louis wasn't paying attention, pours whipping cream into a big, metal bowl. He waits until Louis' put their dirty plates in the sink, then hands the bowl to Louis, along with a loopy, wiry thing.

"Whisk, please," Harry says, and sets to rinsing a small punnet of strawberries.

Louis accepts what's given him, but does nothing with either item. "How do you whisk?"

"Oh. Well, you want the bowl flat on the table," says Harry, coming over and pressing up against Louis' back. He reaches around to grip the edge of the bowl in one hand; the other folds over Louis' and guides his movements. "Side to side, like this," he says, his voice such a deep, luxurious shade of velvet, Louis thinks his pants might spontaneously combust, "until you get stiff peaks."

"Stiff," Louis snickers. So he's got the humour of a twelve-year-old; at least he's not the one who thinks knock-knock jokes are the height of hilarity, like a certain someone he could mention.

"Whisk," says a certain someone, who lets Louis take over but doesn't move away, his hands drifting instead to Louis' hips.

Louis tries to do what he's told. He should get _some_ credit for trying, even if it lasts all of three seconds. It's not his fault, Harry's still plastered to his back with his chin hooked over Louis' shoulder, under the guise of overseeing the process. And it's also not his fault the word _stiff_ came up. Heh, _up_.

Harry kisses the back of his neck.

"Fuck this," Louis says, abandoning the whisk with a clatter. He twists around, circling his arms behind Harry's neck. "If you're trying to seduce me, you're doing it very right." He kisses Harry, nips at his lower lip.

Harry's response is immediate, opening up to Louis straight away, their tongues sliding against each other with delicious heat, and Louis can't get enough of it.

"Don't you want pudding?" Harry asks.

"Fuck pudding," Louis says into Harry's mouth. He pulls back for a second. "I mean, I definitely do want pudding, actually, looks fucking brilliant -- but later. I want _you_ , in my bed, now."

Harry chucks everything into the fridge, some of it upside down; he doesn't really seem to notice. "Pudding later."

The upside of living in a small studio is that Louis' bed is only steps away. Louis topples Harry onto it and climbs in after him, straddles his hips. He rucks up the hem of Harry's shirt and showers kisses all over the taut stomach it reveals, the muscles under Harry's skin flexing and clenching with every touch.

Louis flicks the button of Harry's jeans open, unzips, drags the denim off Harry's long, long legs, taking his pants and socks with it. The lot lands in an unruly clump on the floor, the sound of it as it hits utterly satisfying. Harry's half-hard, and Louis dips his head down, gets his mouth on him, little kitten licks all along the head. Harry arches up towards him, asking for more.

"Fuck, Lou," he grinds out, his eyes squeezed shut. "Shit, that feels so good."

Louis licks up his length, fascinated with how Harry's cock hardens with every pass of Louis' tongue. Louis pulls up, kisses Harry hard on the mouth, yanks Harry's t-shirt off. He has a beautiful, naked boy in his bed, and he wants to see how every line and edge of Harry's body moves when Louis sucks him off.

Harry angles himself up onto his elbows, and reaches out one hand, giving Louis' shirt an ineffectual tug. "Wanna see you," he says. Louis complies, hands bunching the fabric at his back and lifting the shirt over his head, tossing it-- somewhere. Harry scratches the denim stretching over Louis' knee. "And?"

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" Louis laughs, but he hops off to have a quick struggle with his skinnies. Victorious and naked, Louis climbs back onto Harry, this time laying half on top of him, length to length, and kisses Harry's collarbone, palms his dick.

An appreciative hum vibrates out Harry's mouth as Louis licks and sucks at the soft skin just below his jaw. His hands skate down Louis' back, pressing down on the curve of his bum, warming Louis' skin like fire.

Louis shifts fully on top of Harry, rolls his hips slowly, a gorgeous, rhythmic friction building all along the length of his dick, and Harry rises up to meet him on every downbeat. "Harry," Louis breathes into his skin, drags his lips across his cheek.

"Lou, Louis, I want-- Can I--?" Harry stammers, losing the train of his words every time Louis grinds down to slide their cocks together.

His lips are pink and swollen from Louis' teeth, and his eyes are dark, wanting, and Louis thinks he will give Harry anything he asks for. The moon, the stars, Snow White's heart on a stick, whatever, he will give everything he has for this beautiful boy and more. "Tell me," Louis says, and bites his shoulder. "Tell me what you want, love."

Harry nudges Louis' head up, fixes their gazes together. "I want-- I want to fuck you," he says, breathless with it.

There's a second where Harry's words make Louis' brain short out into staticky, starlit nothing. He comes back to himself and nods, a jerky shake of the head that he can't quite control for how much he wants this. "Tell me how you want me. Tell me what you're going to do to me," Louis says.

"I'm--" Harry licks his lips. "I'm going to get you on your hands and knees, and lick you open."

Louis' brain goes again. He's not sure it'll even live through Harry just talking about fucking him, he might come to the sound of Harry's voice alone. "Fuck," Louis says, pressing his face into Harry's shoulder. "Then what?"

Harry's finger slides into the crease between Louis' arse cheeks, a gentle touch of a fingertip that has Louis gasping. "Get my fingers inside you," he says, his breath strident and shaky. "Get you ready for me, make you want it."

Face still buried in Harry's skin, Louis whimpers for more.

"Then I'll get you on your back," Harry says, his hips tilting up, again and again, his voice catching on the friction as their cocks rub together repeatedly. "I want to see your face when I slide my cock inside you for the first time. I'll get so deep in you, Louis, and I'll go slow, so you can feel everything, feel me inside you."

A medal, Louis wants a fucking medal for keeping control of himself. "Fuck, fucking god, Harry, please." He throws himself over to the bedside table, nearly destroys it yanking the drawer open, dies a thousand deaths when his shaking, scrabbling fingers cannot locate the lube right away. Finally his hand closes around the bottle, and a line of condoms trailing after it, that he drops onto the bedspread.

It takes Harry a moment to gather his limbs enough to move before manoeuvring himself and Louis into position. _Hands and knees_ , Louis thinks wildly, as he braces himself on his forearms. Hands and knees with Harry's tongue on him. Jesus Christ.

Harry kneels behind him, spreads his arse cheeks apart. He feels Harry's breath on him, then the soft press of lips, and the wet tip of Harry's tongue over every tiny ridge of his tight rim. "D'you like that, Lou?" Harry asks, and whatever that sound is that comes out Louis' mouth is enough for Harry to keep going.

He hears the pop of the cap coming off the lube bottle, and the first touch of Harry's finger is cold, making Louis' body jerk forward. Harry coaxes him back with a kiss to the base of his spine, then slowly presses his fingertip in.

Louis hears a whimper, he thinks it's him.

"All right, sweetheart?" Harry asks, pushing his finger in to the last knuckle and out again. He presses another kiss to Louis' back.

"More," Louis says, both hands curled into tight fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

Taking his time, Harry slowly, methodically works Louis open with his fingers until the slide goes easy in and out, and Louis is ready to fucking cry with how much care Harry takes with him and how every nerve in his body is on the edge of shattering.

"Harry, please," Louis whines; he should be embarrassed by how needy he sounds, but there is no space anywhere in his body to feel it, not when all his senses are filled up to the hilt with Harry.

Harry kisses his shoulder. "On your back, love," he says, keeping a hand on Louis' hip as he turns and settles into the pillows Harry places under him.

Picking up the chain of condoms, Harry rips off a foil square, rolls a condom on, gives himself a few light tugs, a sight Louis intends to never erase from his memory. He leans back on his haunches, his eyes grazing over Louis' body.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, lowering his head to kiss Louis in the middle of the chest, right where his heart is.

Harry slicks himself up with another handful of lube, angles his body right. The tip of his cock just brushes against Louis' hole, and Louis could break right then and there. Harry does it again, biting his lip hard, holding Louis by the hips, the second touch just as incendiary as the first, a lightning fire that shoots all the way through Louis' core.

"Fuck, fuck, want you so much, Harry," Louis rasps, his voice gone crackly with it.

Harry pushes in, and it's immediately too much, too full, the feeling of Harry's cock inside him, and Louis never wants it to end. He grabs fistfuls of the bedsheets to hold on, breath coming in sharp, short waves. Harry goes slow at first as they get used to each other, agonisingly sweet, every measured drag of his hips, his hands warm and close at Louis' sides.

When Louis gets enough of himself together to slacken his grip on the sheets, he opens his eyes, finds his voice. "Fuck me," he says. "Fuck me, Harry."

"God, yes," Harry breathes.

Lip bitten red, Harry draws out almost all the way, then drives forward with a snap of his hips, deep and tight, his cock hitting something inside Louis that makes the world blank out and wrests a long moan from his throat. Thrusting into Louis with a building rhythm, his balls slap against Louis' skin every time Harry slams into him, the sound of it loud and filthy in the small room. Again and again, Harry pushes down and deep, both of them sweat-slick and drenched in each other's heat.

"Jesus fuck," Louis cries. He can't take it anymore, the saccharine twist of his nerve endings too much to bear as Harry fucks him down into the sheets.

Harry wraps his hand around Louis' cock and pulls one hard stroke, and that's all it takes before fireworks burst bright behind Louis' eyelids and the room rocks to pieces.

He's distantly aware that he's come on himself, his stomach warm and wet, and Louis opens his eyes to see Harry go taut. He pushes his hips into Louis once, twice, buries his face against the bend of Louis' knee, holding tight, until the last tremor leaves his body.

With a shaky exhale, Harry withdraws slowly. He slides off the condom, tying a knot in the top, and pads over to the bathroom to bin it. He comes back with a damp hand towel and cleans Louis off, smacking a kiss to his forehead when he's done.

Louis opens his arms wide so Harry will settle into them. Harry climbs in, his back pressed to Louis' chest, shimmies around until he's comfortable.

Kissing the nape of Harry's neck, Louis says quietly, "I could get used to this."

"Let's do," says Harry.

"Okay," Louis sighs happily into Harry's back, and they stay in bed for a while, Louis almost falling asleep.

"Oh," says Harry, getting up halfway and tugging Louis along with him, "cake. There's still the cake."

Clothing, they decide, is optional in Louis' kitchen, and both of them opt out. Harry puts Louis on strawberry duty this time, certain he can at least wash and hull them with some reasonable degree of skill. Harry pulls out the bowl of whipping cream from the fridge and does his thing, that side-to-side thing he tried to teach Louis. It's mesmerising, the snap of his wrist as he gets the cream going.

Louis only realises he's staring when Harry says, bemused, "What?"

"Nothing. You're just naked in my kitchen, no big deal," says Louis. No big deal, the best sex of his life with the best boy he's ever met. Louis wants to hang a banner from the window about how perfect Harry is, or sky-write it, or fuck, stage a hostile takeover of the BBC so he can run six channels dedicated exclusively to Harry. God, how glorious would that be?

"I'm naked a lot," Harry says casually, lifting up his whisk to check whether the cream's done. It stands up on the whisk, and Harry gives it a satisfied nod. "Not in kitchens, usually, though. That's unsanitary."

"Is this unsanitary, too?" Louis asks, scooping two fingers into the cream and sucking it off.

"It is," Harry says, putting the whisk down, eyes hooded, "very, very dirty."

He kisses Louis, sucks the taste of the cream off his tongue. Their hands tangle as they press into each other, finding all the places where they fit so right together there's hardly a seam. Louis kisses and kisses him, and gets on his knees for Harry.

They do end up eating dessert, most of it. It is licked from Harry's collarbone and from Louis' nipples and from each other's fingers, but it does get eaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The picture of the penguin about to take over the tri-state area is from [this Mirror article](http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/london-underground-150-pictures-of-weird-1525416) on, er, pictures taken on the Tube. 
> 
> Thanks as always to the fabulous [mystardustmelody](http://www.mystardustmelody.tumblr.com) for the beta! And thank you, of course, to everyone reading so far. :*


	5. Chapter 5

Seems like all Louis does is blink, and then a month and a half has already gone. _The Tempest_ 's run is only just a little over two months long, and Louis is going to miss it horrifically when it's done, even though he knows he'll be excited to do whatever he's doing next. He doesn't know if he'll get quite this level of camaraderie though, on his next job (whatever it may be, he hasn't figured it out yet, and he'll thank you kindly to shush about it), as he has with this crew, with whom it's become a nearly nightly tradition to converge on the Rope and Anchor down the street for post-show drinks.

It's evolved into an all-encompassing sort of night out, with a mix of spouses and mates and a revolving door of boyfriends or girlfriends for some of them, so Louis thinks it'll be fine if he asks his friends along. A few pints in, and nobody much cares who they're talking to anyway, as long as everyone knows the lyrics to _Summer Nights_ and Beyonce's greatest hits. Ian doesn't, but he's a septuagenarian, so he's allowed, and he's more into Kanye anyway.

He's got more comps, so Louis invites Niall and Zayn again, to an evening show this time and then the pub after that, and Harry as well, as he miraculously has four days off from the patisserie because his boss decided it was high time he went on holiday with his family.

"When was the last time you could just go and grab a pint?" Louis asks, over dinner that Harry's made again.

Louis would feel a bit indebted about that, Harry doing all the cooking pretty much all the time, aside from a decent chicken and mash thing once that Louis didn't burn down the whole building with. But Harry's also practically moved in, spending most nights at Louis' now, and it's universally agreed that it's better for everyone's health and safety if Louis leaves the kitchen to him.

Harry puts down his utensils to have a think. "Erm, at school? Uni?"

"Well, there you are, you're well overdue," Louis says. His fork picks up something Harry called a _vegetable_ , and he eyes it critically before popping it in his mouth.

"All three of us, non-theatre people? You're sure your friends won't mind?"

Louis makes a scoffing noise. "Mind meeting the most beautiful person on the face of the earth? Harold, please," he says, reaching over to give Harry's hand a patronising squeeze, "you're embarrassing yourself."

"Well, _nobody_ minds meeting Zayn," Harry says coyly.

"You know I meant you, you shit."

Harry laughs, and leans over to peck a quick kiss to Louis' smiling lips. "Yes, thank you, boyfriend." Still not got old yet, that. "Love to go. What if I fall asleep, though? Your show starts at my bedtime."

Louis shrugs. "Sleep through the show, then. Not like you've not seen it before. I'm sure Niall will poke you awake if you snore." He grins, perking up. "I rhymed. Someone should've dropped me a beat there."

"I don't snore," Harry says, offended.

Louis cocks his head. "Remember the time you said that, and then I recorded you on my phone when you fell asleep on Zayn's sofa? Still have that video, actually, I think." He _thinks_ , ha. He's saved it for all eternity, its one minute and twenty-six seconds of pure nonsense. He gets up and grabs his mobile where he's left it on the bedside table, and searches through his gallery. 

" _You_ made those noises," Harry says, palms laid flat on the table, like he can't believe Louis is bringing this up again. "You and Niall."

It is imperative that Louis watches the video again. It starts out with the camera on Louis himself, narrating what he's doing, before the view swings to Harry curled up on the couch. " _Look, look at my little skylark_ ," says video Louis (" _What?_ " screeches Niall's incredulous voice far away in the background), " _sound asleep, isn't he just darling?_ "

Niall never comes into frame, but he David Attenboroughs it up as he and Louis, wilderness explorers, come upon " _a rare sighting of a wild Harry_ ," and goes on about the many and varied sounds a wild Harry makes in its sleep, truly a privilege to hear it in person. It starts out with a regular, sawing snore, then quickly devolves into farm animal sounds (" _Scientists believe that the stupider sounds a Harry can make, the better a mate it'll attract; let's see if we're lucky enough to hear more_ "), and then, at the end, for some reason, a clown honk contributed by a newly arrived Zayn, which results in laughter all around that wakes Harry up.

From his side of the table, Harry makes some grumbling noises as he keeps eating his dinner, but he's still fighting a smile, listening to the audio.

Louis pauses the video, stilling it at a picture of Harry frowning and rubbing one eye, and turns it around to face Harry. "Look how adorable you are, all sleepy and confused."

Harry shakes his head, loftily not getting involved, but he watches the last bit where the video version of Louis caresses him on the cheek and coaxes him back to sleep. When it ends, he says, "You're an idiot." 

"Yes," Louis agrees, with a smile, as he puts his phone down, "but I'm _your_ idiot. And in the end, isn't that what counts?"

"Don't know why I put up with you," Harry says with a sigh. The moue of his mouth begs to be kissed.

Dinner now an afterthought, Louis gets up and resettles himself in Harry's lap, legs dangling on either side, arms loose around his neck. "Of course you do," Louis says, and kisses him sweetly, Harry's hands immediately coming round his back, keeping him close, just below the shoulder blades.

Harry hums low in his throat as Louis sucks a much dirtier kiss into the column of his neck, and Louis feels the vibration of his vocal cords as he tongues into the hollow between his clavicles. He tightens his arms around Harry, wanting more.

"You keep me around," Louis says, moving up now to drag his lips over the shell of Harry's ear, "for my sparkling personality and great wit."

"And," Harry says, a little shakily, turning his head to catch Louis' lips, "is that your great wit I feel pressing into my stomach?"

A laugh fizzes inside Louis like carbonation. He's not sure how he can be tickled and aroused at the same time, but Harry does things to him, the kinds of things people write epic sagas and shameless, fearless poetry about, the kinds of things that have been nothing but ideas in the abstract to Louis until now, until Harry.

"No, Harry," Louis says, smiling against the curve of his jaw. He keeps the poetry inside his head for now. "That would be my massive dick. Which, with any luck, will be in your mouth sometime in the immediate future?"

Laughing softly, Harry picks Louis up by the hips as he stands. Louis' legs wrap around him, and Harry walks them both over to the bed, getting there by blind feel while Louis kisses him hard. "Since you asked so nicely," Harry says, as he sets Louis down on the left edge of the bed.

He unbuttons and unzips Louis, doesn't bother with any other clothing. Louis watches with open-mouthed breaths as Harry kneels between his legs and kisses his flushed cock. 

"Harry, fuck," he says in a tight voice, and that's all he gets out for the next several minutes as Harry sucks him down and blows every single word out of his head.

***

On the night that Harry, Niall, and Zayn attend his show, and Harry doesn't fall asleep thanks to a well-timed nap beforehand, Louis gets held up at the stage door on his way out, informed by security that several people waiting outside have asked specifically to see him. He group texts them to tell them to go ahead without him; they have each other, so he thinks they'll be fine.

After signing a few autographs outside the stage door and taking pictures with fans (who are these insane people who think so kindly of him and make it a point to tell him so?), Louis makes his way down the street to the Rope and Anchor, where half the cast and crew have already gathered.

Along a stretch of a cracked leather banquette that lines a side wall, he finds Niall well into his cups and laughing uproariously with Jack and Olly, Zayn only half-listening and surveying the room like he's imagining how the shadows would fall on a person standing under a particular light, and Harry getting on like a house on fire with Ian. Louis smiles to himself at the sight of it, breathes it in. Despite the long ago smoking ban, a deep whiff of it still lingers in the smoke-infused, wood-panelled walls.

There's an empty spot saved next to Harry, and if it's not, it's Louis' now. He sits himself down, touching Harry's hand under the table. "Hiya," he says. Across the table, he exchanges fistbumps with Niall and Zayn.

"Ah, Louis. Is he your young man?" Ian asks, a twinkle in his eye as he gestures to Harry. As Louis nods, Ian says, "Well done. Best jokes I've heard in a while."

"You've been telling Ian McKellen jokes?" Louis says, horrified. He really, really hopes Harry hasn't brought up the one about the giraffe neck.

Harry grins; it's meant to be smug, but on Harry's face, it's still got a plucky cartoon princess quality to it. "I have," he says, like finally he has someone who truly understands him. "And he likes them."

"They'll go down well when I visit my grandchildren next month," Ian explains, at which point he is, as is his grandfatherly duty, compelled to take his mobile out and present them with an endless camera roll of the antics of some truly tiny children.

"Aww," Louis and Harry coo at the same time, in the same pitch, at a picture of a wee blond girl in a duck costume. They exchange quick glances and share a soft laugh.

James ambles up, drink in hand, angling in for a looksee. "Oh my god, Ian," he says, his voice going up several keys. "She's getting big, isn't she?"

"They always do," Ian muses wistfully, and thumbs over to the next one. "And here's the day her mummy let her dress herself."

Chuckling at the neon-stripe-tulle-sheriff badge mash-up, James taps Louis on the shoulder. "Louis, wondering if I could grab a quick word with you, over there," he says just under the level of the ambient noise. Hastily, he adds, "Nothing bad, don't worry."

"Yeah, sure," Louis says. He squeezes Harry's shoulder as he gets up, and follows James to a slightly quieter corner of the pub, where a dartboard hangs ignored.

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Harry taking the opportunity to head towards the toilets. It's like he's developed some kind of internal navigational system set perpetually to the direction _Harry_ , even when they're in the same general area. Comes in handy once in a while, though, like when they did go to the zoo and they got separated, because Louis' idea of a zoo excursion is to march through all available exhibits, get his twenty quid's worth of animals, and Harry's is to stop and watch the polar bears swim for two hours. Which is where Louis found him.

"Listen, not meaning to pry," James says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, rubbing a hand over his stubble, "but have you booked anything for after we finish here?"

Louis shakes his head; he knows the time is coming up. He needs to be working, and it is, frankly, a little anxiety-inducing that he doesn't have anything lined up yet. James, obviously, did not get the memo, though, to shush about it. Louis says, "I've got a couple of auditions on my schedule for next week, but that's it. Why?"

"Well, Three Nails Theatre have just offered me a job directing Stoppard's _Invention of Love_ next, and I told them I'd do it, if I can make final casting decisions on my own. Which they were fine with," explains James. He pauses. When he starts again, he says it slowly, like he wants Louis to catch every word as it hits. "And when they said yes, I thought to myself, 'James, do you know who would make a fantastic young Housman? Louis Tomlinson'."

His entire brain grinds to a halt and Louis' mouth drops open. "Christ, James," he says, reaching for James' shoulder; he's not quite sure whether it's in case he falls over from astonishment or if he's checking to see if James might be a figment of his imagination. James feels reassuringly solid. "Are you telling me you want me to play Housman? Like, if I want the part, it's mine?

"Yeah, that's what I said," says James, nodding, as if he hasn't just dropped the biggest role of Louis' career to date right in his lap. "So… Are you in?"

Louis mulls it over. It's a contemplative, emotional, esoteric minefield of a play with long, ruminating monologues that can lose the audience in seconds if not played with just the right touch. Of course he fucking wants in. " _Yes_ , absolutely, thank you, this is amazing," he blathers.

"Brilliant! Oh, it's going to be so good," James cheers. He holds out his arms, fingers wiggling. "Bring it in, my man."

James gives good hugs.

While James goes off to get a celebratory, but secret, pint, as he's asked Louis not to tell anyone yet, Louis sees that Harry, on his way out the toilets, has been cornered at the fruit machines by fucking Max. Louis makes his way over, not at all liking the way Max is leaning into Harry's space and the grimace people mistake as a smile on Harry's face that says he's uncomfortable but too polite to mention it.

"Listen, things are different now," he hears Max say. "You and I, we could--"

"What are we talking about, then?" Louis asks loudly, sliding next to Harry, one arm slightly out, fingers touching Harry's thigh to let him know he's protected if he needs it. He'll stand in front of a runaway truck for Harry any given day; he'll gladly stand in front of fucking Max if it makes Harry feel better.

Max gives him a smile; the flare of his nostrils suggests frustration at the interruption, but it's a smile nonetheless. "Oh, just catching up, you know, and reminiscing. For old times' sake."

"I like new times better, me," Louis says conversationally and with aggressive cheerfulness. "More relevant. Why live in the past, eh?"

"Right, yeah," says Max, clearly not on board with Louis' philosophy. "Anyway, Harry--"

"Oh, I think Niall wants us," Harry says, gesturing to Niall, who's at the bar, trying to wave them over.

"Good talk," Louis says genially to fucking Max, patting him on the shoulder as he and Harry move towards the bar. He gives Niall a pat on the back that conveys much more actual respect, and says, as a statement, "What is up, Nialler."

"Looked like you were gonna start a fight over there," Niall says. Before Louis can argue that he was being a consummate gentleman to fucking Max, Niall adds, "And I'm lonely. Jack and Olly are talking some shit about directors I've never heard of, you left me for Corden, Harry left me for the loo--" He pauses to shove a fistful of free, heavily salted bar peanuts into his mouth, not actually looking all that bothered about being left, though Harry pets his hair apologetically anyway. "And Zayn's flirting over there."

As one, Louis and Harry turn to look over at Zayn, whose head is bent towards Perrie's, both of them smiling sort of shyly. In the yellow lights of the pub, Zayn looks like he's been lit by angels. Perrie stands negative amounts of chance against it, not that it looks like she minds very much.

"Jesus, is that what Zayn looks like when he flirts?" Louis says, and if he wasn't already so attached to Harry, he might be calculating his odds with Zayn. "Fuck me."

Harry smirks. "Right now?"

"No, no, no," says Niall, and throws a peanut at Harry. "I didn't get you to come over here to be gross. You take your sexings where I can't hear you."

"Spoilsport," says Louis, pinching his cheek.

Niall tries to bite his fingers. The bartender comes by with a refill for him, and he winks at her. "Cheers, love," he says, and before Louis knows it, he's watching Niall flirting, too, and it's kind of weird how many attractive friends he has that he's not even jealous of.

Louis touches Harry's arm. "What did Max want?"

"Oh, my mobile number," Harry says. Preempting the predictable, immediate surge of _hell no_ Louis feels rising up right alongside his hackles, Harry adds, "He said he's got a couple of friends who are really busy and are thinking about hiring a personal chef to make their lives easier. It'd be like a once a week thing, probably, like what I do for Zayn. Max said he'd put them in touch."

"Not sure that's the only reason he wanted your number for, Haz," Louis says, trying to keep the disdain out of his voice that comes so easily when fucking Max is in the picture.

Harry shakes his head, a look on his face like it'd never occurred to him that there might exist a slight discrepancy between Max's words and his motives. "It's not like that. And a job is a job, right? It'd be great if I could get new clients."

"You already work a shitload of hours, Harry."

"Yeah, but it'll be good experience for me. I love Vaughn, but you know I don't want to work for him forever," Harry says. "This could be a good thing."

Harry looks so optimistic that Louis doesn't argue any more. Besides, setting aside, with much difficulty, his personal distaste for fucking Max, the situation could be exactly what Harry says it is, and every referral he gets could bring him one step closer to the career he wants.

"Okay," Louis says, resting his hand on Harry's hip, "but if this means I have to take over cooking for us, you know we'll be having beans on toast every single night, right?"

"I like beans on toast," Harry says.

"Well, then, you are in for a treat, because not only do I personally own a can opener, I also," Louis says, tapping the side of his nose, "know how to use a toaster."

Harry grins at him. "What more could a guy ask for?"

***

Fucking Max is, to Louis' eternal surprise, true to his word, and Harry ends up with two new clients that take him away for full afternoons twice a week. The bigger bags under his eyes are offset by the joy he gets out of his work and the thanks and praise his clients shower on him, but Louis still fusses about him when he comes back bone-tired, and does, in fact, make the occasional dinner. He's levelled up to stir-fry now; somebody should give him a trophy.

Harry kisses him for it, which is better. "You're so nice to me, Lou," he says drowsily, dead on his feet.

"Of course I am," Louis says, and thinks, _You're my baby, of course I'll take care of you_. "I'm a very nice person."

Harry drifts off to sleep almost immediately after dinner, curled up on the sofa with cushions stuffed under his head, and whatever series it is of _X-Factor_ glitzy on the telly, its volume set low. After tucking an afghan around him, Louis makes himself a cup of tea and comes to sit on the floor, right by where one of Harry's arms is hanging off the couch, and opens up the secondhand copy of _The Invention of Love_ he's been scribbling notes in.

Tomorrow's closing night for _The Tempest_ , and Louis doesn't plan to lose focus for it, but preliminary rehearsals for the Stoppard play start a week after that, and he's not going to be caught out unprepared for it, especially after James' casting him without even seeing any other actors audition. Louis will have something to prove, that he's earned his spot.

Caught up in young Housman's hidden, unreciprocated love for his best friend, the loud jingle of an incoming text on Harry's phone on the coffee table gives Louis a minor heart attack. Harry shifts in his sleep, but doesn't wake, and Louis picks up the phone, intending to move it somewhere else so it won't disturb Harry in case it goes off again. A second notification pops up; reflexively, Louis looks at the screen, and his stomach plummets.

 _Max_ , it identifies. Two text messages from Max. Harry's phone is set to display text messages in full as they come in, and Louis gets an involuntary look at both of them.

The first one, a jaunty _can't wait 2 see u 2moro babe_ , and then, worse, _and no worries. ofc i can think of a way for u 2 make it up 2 me ;)_

Louis can't unsee them. They're both permanently acid-etched into his brain now where he can't scratch them out of existence. He bites down the bilious feeling threatening to overspill his throat, Max's stark white words wreaking havoc everywhere inside him. Louis drops the phone back on the coffee table, his hand recoiling from it just before the screen times out and winks into blackness.

 

 

He doesn't know what to do, what to think. He feels sick. He tries taking a sip of tea to calm him, but his hands shake as they reach for the mug, so he pulls them back, folding them at his chest, draws his knees in.

What. The fuck.

He can be reasonable, he can be a reasonable adult. Louis takes a deep breath in, tries to think of situations that aren't Harry secretly sneaking around behind his back. The text messages reappear in his mind. What's tomorrow? Tomorrow's Sunday. Harry works all of Sunday; he does the patisserie in the morning and then he has that client in Bethnal Green to cook for. Tomorrow's also closing night for Louis' show. Harry had already said he couldn't come to closing night, couldn't come to the after party; he'd be too knackered and he still has work the next morning. So what the hell is he doing instead? Or maybe the question Louis should be asking is, who is he doing instead?

Louis gets to his feet, paces up and down in front of the door, arms folded tight against himself. Fuck fuck fuck.

He slows, and stops. He comes over to the sofa and looks at Harry, fast asleep, face pressed into the cushions, and it feels like his heart is splintering one shard at a time. How can his beautiful boy be doing this to him?

This very much cannot be happening. What is he supposed to do?

In the end, Louis just crawls into bed. He will justify it with using the time to calm himself down so he can think more clearly in the morning, but really, he's just there to hide under the covers and try not to cry. He doesn't wake Harry from the sofa and get him to come to bed like he normally would. Hours later, when Harry comes by himself, Louis pretends to be asleep, facing the wall. And a few hours after that, when Harry leaves before dawn for work, Louis keeps pretending.

***

The nice thing about staying awake all night wondering if the boy he's in love with doesn't love him back is that eventually exhaustion marches in and takes over, and carries him in sleep through the morning. Louis doesn't wake up until well past noon. The beginnings of a headache thrum at the sides of his skull, but he manages to move and get down a bit of toast and tea.

In the light of the morning -- afternoon, whatever -- things don't look any brighter than before. Even taking into consideration his natural inclinations toward the dramatic, Louis doesn't think he's over-sensationalising this. Taken alone, the messages could just be fucking Max being an inordinately forward dick, but it's not just that, is it?

Like a frozen still, the image of Max's texts plasters itself behind Louis' eyeballs; it's all he can see. The casual endearment, the wink at the end of the sentence full of innuendo that makes Louis' stomach cave in. The promise of a meeting Louis has no knowledge about. That's the part that cuts him, Harry arranging some kind of meeting with his ex-boyfriend and conveniently leaving Louis out of the loop. Harry is, if not outright lying, keeping something from him, and it takes no great genius to connect one dot to the next.

He doesn't want to think about Harry that way, not his Harry, who smiles at him like Louis is the sun, who touches him like Louis is the rarest treasure. But what else is he supposed to think?

So he doesn't, doesn't think anything at all, pushes and pushes the thoughts away behind a great, big wall, and submerges himself in the words of his next play, in Housman's journeys. But when he hits the middle of the second act, when he reads Housman's confession of love to someone who wants nothing of it, who wants it buried and never spoken of again, like he's doing Housman a favour by it, Louis throws his book across the floor with tears stinging his eyes.

 

 

Holing up next door and asking for cuddles isn't an option, since Zayn and Niall are out for a few days, in Wolverhampton, of all places, meeting up with the writer whose comic book Zayn is doing the artwork for -- Liam, he thinks they said. They won't be back until later tonight. Of all the times for them to be gone. He's not sure what he'd say to them about Harry even if they were around, but even a tiny hug would help. He texts both of them to say that he misses them, and feels minutely better when Zayn replies straight away with the sentiment returned and a sadface emoji.

So Louis gets no hugs and goes to the theatre early instead, taking a different route so he won't bypass the patisserie. He knows Harry's shift is over and he won't be in there, but-- just.

Hoping the multitude of people at the theatre will be a sufficient distraction, Louis walks backstage in search of someone to talk to. But of course the mockery the universe is making of his life means that fucking Max is the very first person he runs into, wearing on his face what looks very much like a smirk.

"Last one," Max says, rubbing his hands together. "Man, it's been a hell of a ride, hasn't it?"

"Yes," says Louis.

"Can't wait to get to the after party, though. I assume your lovely boyfriend will be stopping in tonight?" Max asks, with a sly air of knowing something everybody else doesn't. "It'd be nice to see him again."

Louis is a paragon of restraint, though for a brief, wonderful moment he imagines what devastation he could wreak on Max's face, and inappropriate as it is, the thought perks him up just the smallest bit. He won't give fucking Max the satisfaction, however, of looking any less composed than he normally is. "No," he says, and walks away, feeling a fool anyway.

 _It'd be nice to see him again_. Louis wonders bitterly if fucking Max has already seen Harry today or if their rendezvous has yet to take place, and neither scenario is any better than the other. God, this is a nightmare. He wants to still be in bed two days ago, for Harry to wake him up from it with soothing strokes and reassuring kisses. But he can't even imagine it now without the taint of his accidental knowledge, without thinking about Harry doing the same for someone else.

He heads to the makeup area, where he sees Perrie prepping her toolkit, humming something to herself.

"Hiya, love," she says cheerfully, laying out an entire army of brushes. "Last time as Ariel; it's going to be a good one. Shall I make you extra sparkly?"

Louis' mouth twists on its own when it hears the warmth in her tone. "Can I have a hug, please?" he asks, desperately hoping that the crack in his voice reached his ears alone.

Perrie drops everything. "Of course," she says, wrapping him up, and doesn't let go till he's ready to. "You want to talk about it?"

"No," Louis says, shaking his head, and swipes a swift hand under his nose. He gathers himself, finding his centre. Easing himself into one of the makeup chairs, he says, "We can talk about you, though. I know you and Zayn have been in touch. Tell me all while you make me extra sparkly."

His life might be a shambles, but he can still be happy for his friends, or try to be, at any rate.

Perrie smiles, takes his chin in her hand. "I will. But before I do, I'm just going to say, whatever it is, you'll be okay. You're stronger than you think."

"Thanks, Pez," Louis says, finding a small smile for her.

When the makeup's done, Louis gets another hug, a much more careful one this time, in case it smudges his face. His costume goes on, his hair gets fixed up. Louis studies himself in his dressing room mirror and forces the biggest smile he can, seeing a merry spirit looking back at him. He nods at his reflection, keeping the smile on. He's Louis fucking Tomlinson, and he has a show to do.

***

The after party is in the theatre bar, usually closed after the curtain goes up each evening, but privately kept open tonight for the company's closing night celebrations, with a hired bartender and caterer. James has ensured that there will be a free flow of every alcoholic beverage known to man. As lovely as it would be to fall into the empty embrace of drunken oblivion, Louis takes his time getting down there, wiping Ariel's face off with slow, deliberate strokes, changing into a button-down shirt and trousers. He hoists his backpack over one shoulder, does a careful scan about the room to make sure he hasn't left anything lying around. Satisfied, Louis edges a finger underneath the sellotape holding his name to the dressing room door, and takes it down. It had a good run.

A loud rabble of music and voices floating down the hallway tells him that the party is already in full swing by the time he gets there. Leigh Anne dances by him with a drink in hand, squeezing his forearm as she goes. Louis gives her a smile, catching her fingers on the way, and they have an impromptu twirl.

Passing by tables of hors d'oeuvres he'd normally try to wrap in napkins and stuff in his backpack, he brings himself over to the bar, where Ian is nursing a glass of what looks like straight whisky and watching, amusedly, the younger cast and crew fly about the room with congratulatory squeals on their lips. Louis pulls himself onto a bar stool next to him, orders a gin martini like a grown-up, and they toast each other for a job well done. 

"It's been an honour, sir," Louis says.

" _Pleasure and action make the hours seem short_ ," Ian quotes, because of course he has the entirety of the Shakespearean corpus at his fingertips for any occasion. He nudges Louis' shoulder. "I'll look forward to working with you again, my brave spirit."

They clink glasses again. Louis takes a sip of his drink, feeling it burn down his throat and pool in his hollow stomach.

"Not going to, er, join the party?" Ian asks, pointing to where Olly is spearheading some kind of dance-off with several of the running crew and fucking Max, with what looks to be about his twentieth drink, if the pliant sway of his body and braying laugh are anything to go by.

Solemnly, Louis shakes his head, looking away from the friendly fracas. "Not much in the mood, to be honest."

"Productions come and go," Ian says, mistakenly ascribing Louis' subdued mood to the show being over, after having dedicated several months of their lives to it, "but it is often hard to let go of the great ones."

"It is," Louis agrees, thinking of something else entirely.

"A largish birdie," Ian says, nodding his head in James' direction, "tells me you're to play Stoppard next. I shall be in the front row." A line across the room clears for a second, and Ian spies the table of hors d'oeuvres. "Ah, I think I see a bacon-wrapped date with my name on it. Several, in fact."

He pats Louis between the shoulder blades, and heads off towards the food, taking two seconds to shimmy with Leigh Anne as he crosses her path.

Louis turns his back on the party. He should be celebrating with everyone else; they've had a brilliant run, and people in the theatre circles are starting to remember his name. He should be happy, but here he is, drinking alone in a room full of people. His mobile is in his pocket, turned off since he got to the theatre; he powers it back on to find a text from Harry assuring him that he'll be brilliant in the final show. Louis' thumbs hover over the keyboard, but nothing gets typed, and his phone disappears back into his pocket.

What would he even say? _Where are you_ springs to mind, but whatever Harry replies, if he replies at all, Louis would immediately classify as a lie. He hates this, this barricade that he's made spring up overnight between him and Harry because of a couple of stupid text messages. Louis gulps down a mouthful of his martini. He should go home, just go home and talk to Harry, but the thought doesn't make it far enough for his limbs to move.

Stuck here in this limbo of wondering, Louis could still pretend like maybe it's okay. If he goes home to Harry, finds out the truth once and for all, then-- what if the truth is that Harry _has_ been cheating, or at least thinking of it, what if Harry wants to be done with him? It's not immediately clear which version of Louis would be more pathetic, the one who won't ask or the one who gets an answer he doesn't want.

"Doin' all right there?" says the bartender, a rotund man with a weathered face, gesturing at Louis' nearly empty glass.

 _No_ , Louis wants to cry. Isn't this what bartenders are for? Listening to their weepy clientele's life problems and doling out grizzled old man wisdom? "Yeah, cheers," Louis says instead, losing his chance.

Assured that Louis' doing fine with his drink, the bartender nods and heads to the kitchen to fetch something, the double swinging doors parting to a view of bright, white lights and stainless steel and a head of dark curls held back with a pink scarf. Louis blinks as the doors swing shut on the vision.

Wait. Louis sits up straighter on the stool, unsure if he's just hallucinated. How much gin is in his drink, exactly?

One of the doors opens again, by inches this time, offering no better view inside, but Louis sees who's pushing in, sliding into the kitchen by a crack like he ought not be there. Fucking Max. Before he knows it, Louis' on his feet, his heart pounding, and he stalks to the kitchen. He opens the door, and everything inside him breaks.

"Harry." It's Harry. It's Harry with fucking Max's mouth pressed to his.

Louis turns, and _runs_.

"Louis?" he hears somewhere behind him, far, far away. "No-- fucking-- get _off_ me. Louis _, wait_."

He doesn't stay to find out what he should be waiting for. Grabbing his backpack, Louis takes off, out the bar, up the hallway; everything blurs by in streaks, and he gets outside on muscle memory alone. The night air hits his lungs like a hammer. Louis doubles over, and he can't remember how to breathe.

Every horrifying picture his imagination has concocted ever since last night is nothing compared to seeing it for real. He feels sick, like his entire body doesn't know how to work anymore, every moving part out of sync and at cross purposes.

Footsteps pelt behind him, and Louis screws his eyes shut, like they will go away if he doesn't look. _Please please please_. They don't go away, they just keep coming for him, and he feels Harry hunching over beside him.

A tentative hand rests on his arm, and Louis jerks it away. "Don't touch me," he whispers.

"Louis, _please_ ," Harry implores. "Look at me?"

Some force of will that Louis can't be sure is entirely his makes him turn his head up to look Harry in the eye. It's a mistake; it just feels like he's being stripped open all over again and laid bare to the mercy of a capricious, uncaring universe. It hurts, everything hurts.

"Lou, he was _drunk_ , he just-- came at me, out of nowhere. I didn't ask him to, I didn't _want_ him to," Harry says. "Please, please, sweetheart, you have to believe me."

"Why should I?" Louis counters at once, a sudden burst of anger propelling the words out. His lungs remember how to work now, and they're breathing fire. He wants to take Harry's _sweetheart_ and burn it to the ground and salt it where it lies. "You lied to me. For all I know, you've been lying to me this whole time."

Harry's head shakes vehemently, confusion painted all over his face. "No, no, I haven't. I don't-- I don't know what you're talking about."

"Just give it up, Harry, fuck's sake," Louis snaps. He doesn't know what to do with himself; he just wants to _not be here_ , but his anger's spiking his feet straight into the pavement, and he can't do anything but stay and fight. "I know what I saw."

"That wasn't-- Ask him, Louis. Ask him, I told him to fuck off."

Jesus Christ, even now. "Stop lying to me."

"I'm not lying; I've never lied to you," Harry says helplessly. "Louis, honestly, I don't know what you're saying."

" _You and fucking Max_ ," Louis nearly shouts, throwing his hands in the air. He paces, away, away from Harry. "I've seen the text messages he sent you."

Harry pulls up short. "What-- You were going through my phone?"

"I wasn't going through your fucking phone; the notifications came up when you were asleep, and I saw-- No. No, _no_ ," Louis snarls. Oh, this is rich, suddenly Louis' the one at fault? Fucking _no._ He marches up to Harry, makes to shove him in the chest, but he pulls back in the end. He can't hurt Harry, even now, and it makes him all the more furious. "Don't you turn this back on me. Don't you dare, Harry. You were the one kissing fucking Max in the fucking kitchen, don't you _dare_."

He's shaking, his whole body is shaking, and his voice breaks on the last word, and why is _Harry_ in tears now, he's not the one whose heart's just got ripped to shreds.

"Please, Lou," Harry says, trying to reach out for him. "I don't understand--"

Louis recoils from him, an instinctive movement that startles even himself. He has never, ever thought that Harry would trigger that reflex. It levels him from the inside out, that this is how they've ended up.

"I'm done. I'm done, Harry," he says, and it won't come out at more than a whisper. "Don't, don't call me, don't-- anything. We're done."

"No, Louis--"

Louis walks away.

He can't, he just _can't_ anymore. He treads up the dark streets as quickly as he can, swerving past jovial drunkards stumbling out of pubs, keeps his eyes trained ahead, on a mission to reach his flat before his entire body crumples in on itself. He makes it home in one piece, tosses his backpack across the floor. Shedding layers of clothing on the way, Louis gets into the shower, the hot water easing the hurt in his bones. He sits on the floor of the tub, and cries.

It's only when the hot water starts running out that Louis slops out of the shower, and he's blindly pulling on something from the wardrobe that'll pass for pyjamas when his phone rings. He lets it go to voicemail, only for it to ring again. Louis looks at the display.

Against his better judgment, he picks up. "Niall."

"What the hell's going on with you two?" Niall hisses; it sounds like he's hiding somewhere with terrible acoustics and cupping his hand over his mouth so as not to be overheard. "Harry's, like, ready to throw himself off a bridge."

"Harry can do what he wants," Louis says, nearly choking on the frost in his voice.

"Seriously, Tommo. He's in bad shape, haven't been able to get two words out of him since he came home," Niall says, panicky. "What did you do?"

A bitter laugh claws its way up Louis' throat, leaving scar after scar. "What did _I_ do?" he spits. "Are you-- Are you joking? Fucking _bullshit_ , Niall." He hangs up, just narrowly resisting the urge to hurl his phone against the wall.

It doesn't take long for the rest of the cavalry to be alerted. He doesn't even have to look to know it's Zayn on the other side of the door when a soft knock comes.

"Go away," Louis shouts at it.

"Open the door, Louis," comes Zayn's low voice, calm and edging close to disinterested. "Don't make me stand out here all night."

He kind of thinks Zayn might actually do it, just to make a point, so he slouches over to the door and opens it a crack. "I don't want to hear it," Louis says to the visible sliver of Zayn's face.

Zayn puts a pair of conciliatory palms up, shaking his head. "'M not getting in the middle of it. I'm just bringing you beer and DVDs." As an afterthought, he adds, "And hugs. If you want hugs."

Louis lets Zayn in, and claims the hug first.

They watch _Finding Nemo_ , and Zayn lets Louis arrange cushions on his lap and curl up with his head in them. Zayn doesn't make him talk about anything, doesn't even allude to the reason he's here distributing alcohol and hugs. They don't talk at all. It's nice, given the context.

When Nemo gets dropped in the dentist's tank, Louis says, quietly, defiantly, "I hate him."

Zayn strokes his hair a bit. "Do you?"

He doesn't. "Yeah."

"Okay," says Zayn.

Louis inhales shakily; from the cushions he gets the faint whiff of Harry's shampoo from when he'd last slept on them, and it hits him hard in the chest. "I don't," he murmurs, clutching the cushions a little tighter. 

"I know."

Louis shifts so he's facing up, getting a nice view up Zayn's nose. Even from this angle, Zayn's face is a work of art; it's distressing. "I'm getting better at this cryptic, mysterious man thing, right?" he asks.

Zayn huffs out a silent laugh. "No, not really," he says, and gets a poke up the nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta [mystardustmelody](http://www.mystardustmelody.tumblr.com), and thank you to everyone reading along! Your comments and encouragement have been amazing. ♥


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the damage suffered, Louis manages to live through the night, and the following day, and the day after that. He passes most of the hours sitting in his flat with the telly on, either not watching a single bit of it or getting angry at the smallest, most inconsequential things the fictional people do. Every time his phone rings or a text comes in, Louis' heart leaps in a wild mix of fear, hope, and anger all at once, until he's forced to turn off his phone altogether. He doesn't read any of the texts Harry sends him, or listen to his voicemails before he powers it off. Society will just have to adapt to some higher form of communication with him, and Harry will just have to not be in his life.

The imposed physical distance has no consequences whatsoever on his brain, though, traitorous thing that it is. All it does now is play endless loops of that night, like those gif images he sees online, Harry in the bar kitchen, fucking Max, _please Lou I don't understand_ , _I'm done_ , Harry in the bar kitchen, fucking Max, _please Lou I don't understand_ , _I'm done_ , Harry in the bar kitchen -- what had he even been doing there, when he'd told Louis he couldn't come?

Not that it even matters; just one of potentially hundreds of lies Harry might as well have told him over the course of their relationship.

It hadn't felt like a lie, though, that's the thing, that's what makes it hurt so much. He doesn't have to go trawling deep through his memories to find one of Harry's face going soft and fond for him, or Harry's gigantic laugh at Louis' jokes, or Harry's skin pressed to his; they're all right there at the surface, there are so fucking many of them, and he was there, he was there to feel every single one of them, and they'd all felt like love.

He still can't bring himself to hate Harry, he just can't. Louis wishes he had it in him. It would make things so much easier; he could burn through his anger with noise and destruction. But this, he doesn't know what to do with this bleak, bottomless well of dejection. He wants so much to hate Harry, but all it does is remind him of the opposite, and it turns his ire everywhere but where it should go. 

Louis wipes his eyes, turns the channel, hoping there'll be something on that he can lose himself in so he won't have to stay in his head anymore.

"No, you fucking idiot, of course it's not true," Louis yells at the TV, and things have really taken a turn when he can't even keep it together at _Would I Lie to You_.

He mashes his face into the cushions. They don't carry Harry's smell anymore; they smell like they used to, before Harry. And that's a good thing, isn't it?

Who knows? Who cares?

Zayn, in his wisdom, has taken control of a spare key to Louis' flat, and checks in on him once a day to make sure he isn't attempting headfirst runs out the window and to tell him to eat something. To make Zayn happy, Louis eats biscuits that taste to his mouth like sawdust and heartbreak, and washes it down with tea he can barely be bothered to make. He might as well live on tepid water from now on, for all the joy he gets out of it.

Today, Niall comes in with Zayn.

They haven't spoken since Niall sort of accused him of being the one to break his and Harry's relationship; it's not fair and he doesn't like it, but Louis, in the occasional lucid, rational moment that emerges from the fog, gets that Niall was friends with Harry first. He doesn't get to be the one to keep Niall.

"Tommo," Niall says, jabbing at his feet where Louis has not bothered to get up off the couch to welcome him in.

"Can I help you?" Louis asks crisply. From the kitchen, where he's making tea and putting something together to make Louis eat, Zayn gives him a pleading look, and Louis relents. He says, and though it's hard to get out, it's not a lie, "Nice to see you again, Nialler."

Niall sits on the floor to face Louis, arms hanging over his raised knees. "Sorry I said the thing," he says, his mouth twisting to one side. "I know it wasn't your fault."

"Thank you," Louis says.

"But it's really not Harry's fault either," Niall says, grimacing like he's afraid Louis might punch him in the face for this act of treason. When it doesn't come, he tries, "Just-- talk to him, okay?"

"I've nothing to say to him," Louis says, hugging the cushions under his head. "He lied."

"Okay, but, like, not on purpose," Niall says.

" _Not on purpose?_ " Louis repeats. He sits upright, a low simmer in his belly starting to heat up. "It wasn't on purpose that he was secretly arranging meetings with his ex while telling me he's busy?"

"Yeah, not on purpose," Niall says again, resolute. "Talk to him, Louis. He's, like, going fucking mad."

The thought that Harry might be equally distraught over him makes Louis simultaneously pleased and worried. Finding no middle ground, and upset with himself that he still cares about how Harry's feeling, Louis lies down again. "Have you quite finished?"

"No." Niall's mouth draws downwards, somewhere between petulant and imploring. "I need someone to play FIFA with next door. Zayn's really bad at it."

Zayn only shakes his head in disapproval, so Louis takes it upon himself to stand up for him. "Rude," he says to Niall. Still, "But not untrue."

"So," says Niall, tentative and brave, "you comin'?"

"Yeah," Louis decides, feeling like it's okay to smile for the first time in days. "Yeah, I'm coming."

***

Obstinately unavailable by phone now, Louis gets three separate emails about it from Leigh Anne, the first one, from a couple days ago, asking if he's up for drinks, the second wondering where he is and jokingly asking if he's run off with the circus. He's responded to neither, but the last, worried, _seriously are you okay? please call me soon as you get this! (if it's convenient)_ makes him reconsider. He thinks about just emailing her back to let her know he's alive and not well, but she's concerned and has asked for a call, so he'll give her a call. He might be mostly dead inside now, but keeping his friends at bay is probably not the ideal if he wants to come out the other side eventually.

Louis turns on his phone, logs the handful of notifications for texts and missed calls, steeling himself as he thumbs through them. He's not quite prepared for the flood of disappointment when he sees none of them are from Harry. So that's that, then. Harry's probably taken up with fucking Max now, and Louis' a speck in the distant past. It takes him a minute to get to a place where he can make his voice approach normal before he rings Leigh Anne.

"Are you all right?" is the first thing she asks, like she can hear exactly how not normal he is as soon as he says hello. "You've been, like, off the grid for days."

"I'm fine," Louis lies. He's an actor, he can sell this. "Just was having a bit of a sulk, that's all, nothing to worry about." Just trying to glue his heart back together from dust, that's all. Just trying to surgically excise a dimpled smile and soft curls and green eyes from his mind, that's all.

"Okay," Leigh Anne says, not at all convinced. "Well, do you want to come out for a drink tonight? Jade might come, and Olly. Nothing crazy, mind you; not, like, clubbing or anything. Just-- something to do."

The appended caveat is hardly necessary. Louis hasn't even had the energy to get dressed the past three days, much less insert himself into a room full of strobe lights and pulsing music and wall-to-wall bodies. He considers begging off, and the _thanks but no thanks_ is almost at his lips, but then again, he thinks, if Harry can move on with his life, Louis can damn well do it, too.

"Yeah," he says slowly, making the word form on his tongue, making it sound right. "That sounds good, actually."

The movements come back to him once he gets started, a shower first, and then presentable clothes from the wardrobe instead of the floor. He gets a bit fancy with his hair, taking the time to style its soft layers. When he's done, his reflection gives him a small smile, and Louis turns away before he can see it fall. He can do this.

Despite living right next door, Louis texts Zayn that he's going out, not wanting to lose his momentum getting detoured into Zayn's flat. _I demand you be proud of me_ , he types. Zayn rewards him with five thumbs-up emojis, and Niall must be with him, because he messages Louis, too, taking his cues from Zayn and sending a whole string of emojis that Louis thinks is supposed to translate into some kind of story, but fuck if he can figure it out.

The air as he steps outside is a bracing cold, and under bright streetlights, he can see clouds of his breath rise against the navy sky. Louis digs his hands into his coat pockets, fingers brushing against old cough drop wrappers and loose change, and walks against the wind towards the bus stop. It's not exactly pleasant, the fresh, new winter chill, but it feels different, at least, from the haze of his flat. Different is good.

As is ever to be expected, Louis is left waiting and waiting at the stop. He could be halfway there on foot by now, only he hadn't wanted to walk all the way in the cold, except now he's been standing in the cold for twelve minutes and the 344 to Clapham Junction has yet to grace him with its presence. Typical.

He debates with himself whether he might run to the cafe across the street to get something warm. But it's one of those laws etched somewhere in stone, one of the forgotten commandments that Moses accidentally left on the mountain, that as soon as he steps just far enough away from the bus stop, the bus will rumble in. So Louis stays put, not without a longing look at the cafe and its undoubtedly heated interior.

Rocking on his feet to keep his blood from frosting over, Louis keeps himself occupied watching the trickle of people going in and out of the cafe, making up little stories about them in his head. A couple exits the cafe, arms slung around each other. Louis' feet plant hard.

It's fucking Max across the street. Why is it always fucking Max? Louis squints, something wrong with the picture. Max has his arm wrapped around snugly another man, and it's not Harry, and fucking shit, they're kissing, and _it's not Harry_.

Louis did not go through hell for this. He hasn't lost sleep and cried sixty rivers and wrung himself inside out for this, for this abominable nutsack of a man to turn around and cheat on Harry.

Barely cognisant of traffic, Louis bolts across the road. He claps a hand over fucking Max's shoulder. "Max," he says.

Max's face is a picture of surprise, and not altogether pleasant surprise, at that. "Oh, hey. Louis," he says, with not a single iota of enthusiasm, and is that a hint of fear in his eyes? Good. "Er, how are you, mate?"

Glancing over at Max's companion to double check it's not Harry -- and it fucking isn't, Louis jerks his head in the direction of the narrow alley that runs alongside the cafe. "Great. Listen, may I have a word in private?" he asks, polite to his very core, even as hostility charges through his veins.

"Er, yeah, sure," says Max, hesitant, but he follows Louis' lead.

As soon as they round the corner, Louis shoves Max into the brick wall with a savage, "You fucking piece of shit."

"All right," Max says, putting his hands up with a grimace. "Okay, I'm sorry. Jesus."

Louis wants a fucking fight, not whatever this is. An apology? "What?" he spits out.

"I'm sorry," Max says again, with an emphatic intonation to his voice that says if Louis makes him say it one more time, he will get a fist to the face instead. "I was drunk, all right? Pissed out of my head. I thought I had a fucking chance." He looks everywhere but at Louis, teeth gritted tight. "Your boy made it very clear that I was wrong."

The confusion reverberating across his head must not be showing on Louis' face. "Good," he says, narrowing his eyes, hoping the one word covers everything it should. He has no idea what has happened, but neither is he keen on letting on that this is not at all what he envisioned at the beginning of this interaction.

Max brushes off Louis' invisible handprints from his jacket. "You get that one, out of respect," says Max, as if this is a reasonable, everyday sort of deal where he comes from, "but you touch me again and I will--"

"What about the text messages?" Louis blurts.

" _What?_ "

"You were texting Harry," Louis says.

Max stares at him as if he's sprouted two extra heads, both of which are turning out just as insane as the original. "Listen, I haven't talked to him since that day. He told me to fuck off out his life, so I have _fucked off_ ," he says, jabbing his words into the air with vehement fingers. 

This is news. It's a little difficult to process, to be honest, after all his wild imaginings of what Harry and Max might have got up to since Louis walked away from it all. "You haven't? At all? Not since the after party?" Louis says.

"That's what I just bloody said, mate." He waits with tightly folded arms, put-upon now, for the next frivolous question to be tossed his way. With no reply from Louis forthcoming, Max says, impatient and aggravated, "Are we done?"

"Yeah," Louis says, injecting as much derision as he can into the single utterance.

As Max turns on his heel and leaves with a departing glower, Louis hears him swear under his breath, " _Fucking psychopath_." Louis will let that one go, because, well, yes, he has not exactly been a bastion of rational thought in recent memory.

He leans against the wall heavily, his mind racing and tripping, repeatedly, over what he's just heard. Harry and Max aren't together, and Max had been drunk, like Harry said, and Max never had a chance at all. Louis' breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, unable to corral his thoughts together. He pulls his phone from his pocket, and with shaking hands, dials Niall.

"Yeees?" Niall says on the second ring.

Bypassing hello, Louis demands, "Where's Harry?"

"What?"

Louis clutches the phone tighter, like this will help the connection. " _Where's Harry?_ I need to talk to him, like, now."

"Fuckin' finally," Niall mutters. "He's at the shop; been doing double shifts most of this week. 'Bout to close up soon, though, I think."

Thanking him at the same time that Louis hangs up, he then types out a _so so so so sorry_ to Leigh Anne for cancelling on their plans this late, promising to make it up another day. He pockets his phone, comes back round the corner, and looks up just in time to see the 344 leave the bus stop. The universe is going to make him earn his way.

So, as always, Louis runs.

He sprints all the way to the patisserie, cleaving his way through foot traffic at record land speeds, and stops outside its window, its CLOSED sign facing out. The overhead lights are dimmed, just the one over the counter still bright like a spotlight. The display cases underneath are empty, and behind them is Harry, lethargically wiping down a shelf framed with still twinkling fairy lights. Harry doesn't see him, not yet, and Louis catches his breath, makes sure it stays with him. Louis tries the door handle, and it gives.

"Sorry, we're--" says Harry, turning around. "Lou?"

Louis' heart stops for a second at how beautiful and wretched Harry looks, eyes tired and skin wan, the top half of his hair tied back into a slapdash bun like he can't be bothered anymore, and it is the biggest fight of Louis' life not to hurdle the counter right then and wrap his arms around him. But he can't, he can't, not until he sorts everything out. He's so close to it. He feels like his bones might shake themselves loose.

"When Max sent you those texts, the night before the after party," Louis says, not quite able to keep his voice steady, "when he said _can't wait to see you tomorrow_ and, and, _you can make it up to me_ , what was he talking about?"

Harry puts his cleaning rag down and says, slowly, as though he's been expecting this very thing, "The caterer for the party had to cancel at the last minute, and he'd overheard the production manager talking about it, and he gave them my name."

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Louis asks, not understanding it at all. "You'd said you couldn't come. You'd said you had too many other things going on." 

Harry gives him a rueful shake of the head. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise," he says, "like, that afterwards, we could walk home together."

A surprise. That's it? _That's it?_

Understanding dawns over Louis like a jackknife blow to the gut, swift and unforgiving.

"Oh my god," Louis moans, stricken, covering his face with his hands. He sinks to the floor, the crushing weight of his stupidity finally too much to bear. It all dogpiles on him, one punishing thought on top of another, Harry only wanting to surprise him at the after party, the ensuing text messages blown so far out of proportion they've cleared the earth's exosphere, the kiss in the kitchen Harry had absolutely nothing to do with, Harry calling Louis' flat _home_. Louis doesn't know how he got here, can't comprehend how monumentally _thick_ he is. "Jesus fucking Christ, Harry."

He hears Harry shuffle out from behind the counter and approach, but still staying a respectful distance away. "Lou, are you okay?"

" _No_ ," Louis says into his hands, which are the only things stopping his voice coming out as a wail. This whole time he'd been thinking-- And for _what?_ "Fuck, fuck, I'm so stupid. I'm so stupid. You're supposed to tell me when I'm being this stupid, Harry." And the thought of it, the initial agreement they'd made, _I don't ever want to be the reason you're not smiling_ , smashes him in the chest, dislodging a new flood of distress. He can't stop himself crying now, because he's put them through hell for nothing, absolutely nothing. "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you just let me--"

Harry comes closer, sits next to him. "I wanted to, I wanted to come and see you, and tell you, but--" he says, a hitch in his voice. He sniffs. "But you'd said not to call or anything, and I, I know I did, right after, I left you messages, and-- I shouldn't have. You'd said not to, and I wanted to respect that."

Of course he did. Of course he'd give Louis the space he demanded. Louis is a miserable piece of trash, and sorry doesn't even begin to cover it. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, attempting to staunch the flow of tears. "I'm so sorry, god," he wheezes. "I've fucked it all up."

The warm hand that rubs circles up and down his back makes him feel ten times worse. "Louis, come on," Harry says softly. "You're okay. You're all right."

"Please just tell me to go to hell," Louis says in a small voice, and wipes his face on his sleeve. God, he is such a mess, inside and out. He looks at Harry, sees the exhausted, red rims of his eyes and the sheen of tears in them, and he wants to kick himself in the face for it. "I don't deserve you. I'm so, so stupid. Why are you being so nice to me, Harry?"

Harry shrugs helplessly, a half-smile coming and going with the rise and fall of his shoulders. His voice is thick. "Because I love you, probably."

And this is what heartbreak means, Louis realises. Not his own selfish, irrational pain, not the fog of misery he'd spent slouching around in the past three days. It's knowing with perfect clarity that he's broken the heart of someone who loves him through it anyway, when he's not worthy of any of it.

Louis sucks in a shaky breath. "I love you, too," he whispers fiercely. "And I'm sorry I didn't trust you; you didn't deserve that. I made you hurt, Harry. I'm so sorry. You deserve better than me. You deserve--"

"You don't get to decide that, Lou. I do," Harry says, his eyebrows pulling together. "I decide what I want."

"So what do you want?" Louis asks. He is desperate, would give his left arm or his firstborn child or his firstborn's left arm for Harry to simply say _you_. But he shores himself up for the alternative, his hands clasped in his lap so tightly everything's gone white, because Harry does get to decide, and whatever he decides is whatever Louis will do. That much Louis can give him.

"A hug would be nice for a start," Harry says.

The breath Louis' holding comes out in a small, raspy laugh. "Okay, I can do that."

Harry folds his arms around Louis, warm and solid wherever they touch, and he presses his face into Louis' hair. "And I want you, Louis," he murmurs. "I'll always want you."

Clutching him close, Louis says, "I love you so much, Harry. So, so much."

They must look a sight to passersby, two grown men sitting on the floor of a patisserie in each other's arms, rocking back and forth, but they can fuck off if they don't think it's the most beautiful thing they've ever seen, because that's exactly what it is to Louis. He has Harry by his side, and there's nothing, _nothing_ , more breathtaking than that.

Harry kisses his temple. He rises to his feet, pulling Louis up with him. "Come on," he says, his palms soft at the sides of Louis' face as his thumbs brush clear the wet marks on his cheeks. Harry's lips seal a promise against Louis'. "You look a mess. Shall we get you home, boyfriend?"

Louis' heart bursts in technicolour. "Yes, please, boyfriend."

After a few minutes taken to shut off the lights and lock up, Harry and Louis head outside, fingers laced together, and walk home. It's an unusually quiet walk, neither of them saying anything, though they keep their hands twined together tight; Louis, at least, is still paging through everything that's happened in his head, and doesn't quite know how to start over, doesn't know how to lift the solemnity without being flippant. He'd nearly destroyed their relationship; how does one bounce back from that?

When they get inside Louis' flat, he looks to follow Harry's lead, and Harry starts with wrapping his arms tight around Louis.

"I missed you, you know," Harry says.

Louis returns the sentiment in full, and adds, "I'm sorry, Harry."

"Lou. We're okay, you and me," Harry says, looking him seriously in the eye, before a familiar spark of playful exasperation outshines it. "How many more times do you need to say it before it's out of your system?"

"About fourteen thousand, at a guess," Louis says, feeling his old self coming back to him.

Harry looks none too impressed. "How about one?"

"Thirteen-five," Louis haggles.

"One," Harry says, clearly not understanding how bargaining actually works, but the sweetness of his smile probably ensures he will never pay full price for anything, ever, and Louis has never loved anyone more fiercely, more painfully, more happily in his life.

"Twelve thousand, and that's my last offer," Louis says.

Harry rests their foreheads together. " _One_."

"I'm sorry I put us through that," Louis says, breathing deep. "I really am."

"I know," says Harry, and brushes his lips against Louis', a touch so light and so soft Louis feels a tidal wave of want coming up to meet it. He spreads his palms around the angles of Louis' hips. "And if you'd like to make it up to me, I have suggestions."

"As it happens, I'm very suggestible," Louis says, but he doesn't wait for Harry's lead anymore, rising up on his toes to kiss him, heart soaring to the sky as their mouths crash together for what feels like the first time in forever.

They shed every layer, seeking the heat of each other's skin as they lie tangled on cool, rumpled sheets. They find the edges that have frayed between them, and knot themselves back together good as new with sweeping touches and dirty words and skin and sweat and every beat of their hearts.

Later, much later, when a gorgeous, stretched-out ache throbs sweetly in him and Harry's tucked closely in his arms, Louis looks over at the clock, its time marching steadily away, and at the deep, dark velvet sky outside his window. He drags soft teeth at Harry's naked back. "Getting late, Haz," he says. "You want to stay?"

Harry turns to face him. And there, that smile that he only ever smiles for Louis. "Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope that made up for the unpleasantness last chapter. :) We've got an epilogue to go, and then this baby's all done! Many thanks to my beta [mystardustmelody](http://www.mystardustmelody.tumblr.com) and to you, gentle reader. ♥


	7. Epilogue

Everything's just a bit weird today. For one thing, Harry's still hanging about at home, having taken the day off work from the restaurant (pity the countless diners who've made advanced reservations specifically for Chef Styles' acclaimed desserts). For another, Louis is wearing a suit. Shiny, black lapels, pocket square, a white silk polka-dotted shirt Harry picked out for him.

"Do I look all right?" Louis asks, turning this way and that, trying to catch every angle in the mirror that hangs at the side of their bedroom.

"Gorgeous," Harry says, a hand brushing Louis' waist as he floats by in his own complementary ensemble. He comes back a second later with a bottle of Louis' favourite cologne and hands it to him, smiling at Louis' reflection. "Nervous?"

"I don't know, a bit, yeah," Louis says. He's not expecting to win. It's the Olivier Awards, for god's sake. Getting the nomination alone had nearly sent him into cardiac arrest, and he's still not entirely sure the judging panel hadn't mistaken him for someone else with scads more talent when he'd been shortlisted on the ballot. It has a nice ring to it, though, if he's perfectly honest: _Best Actor in a Supporting Role, Louis Tomlinson, The Invention of Love at Three Nails Theatre and The Mermaid_.

Originally slated for a three-month run, it had been so well-received that it had got extended and moved to a bigger theatre for another three. Louis has offers coming to him now, without him giving a single headshot away, and it continues to be a mystery what he did in his past life to earn all of this, but he assumes past-Louis must have done something equivalent to saving all the world's kittens from very tall and very burning buildings.

Louis snaps a pair of cufflinks on, completing the look. He takes a deep breath.

"You look amazing, too, you should know," he says to Harry. "You're going to show me up on the red carpet."

Harry shakes his head, not having any of it. "Not a chance. When we come home," he says in a low voice, turning Louis around by the shoulders so they face each other, and runs his fingers down the length of Louis' lapels, "I'm going to suck you off while you're still wearing this."

"No," Louis protests feebly, as a flame sparks on and burns low in his belly, "that's _hours and hours_ from now. Harry, you cannot do this to me, I hate you."

He doesn't, obviously. It's been well over a year and a half, the two of them, and he adores the way Harry can still make his knees go weak with a single word and that look in his eyes. Louis puts a hand on Harry's chest, doesn't quite push him away, feels the strong, steady heartbeat pulsing underneath his palm, and loves Harry with everything he has.

"I'm just saying," Harry says, with a chaste peck to Louis' lips, "that there'll be something to look forward to later. I mean, other than meeting Tom Hiddleston on the red carpet, probably. And you're not allowed to run away with him, by the way."

Louis tuts at him with a petulant frown. "You never let me do anything." He knows what kind of mood Harry's in, so he preempts whatever saucy response is about to leave Harry's lips, and says, "Besides you."

"I would think that'd be enough," Harry says loftily.

"I could never get enough of you," Louis says, sliding his arms around Harry's neck, rising on his toes to kiss him softly.

He has to tear himself away before they get too enveloped in each other that they end up missing the whole thing. Big night. Big, big night; he cannot go AWOL on his own big night just because Harry looks like absolute sex in a suit.

Thankfully, his phone pings with the announcement that their hired car is here, and in the backseat, Harry holds his hand all the way to Covent Garden, his thumb buffing reassurances into Louis' skin.

It already looks like a well-controlled madhouse when they arrive at the Royal Opera House, throngs of reps corralled in the pen near the entrance and a sea of photographers, journalists, and fans all down the sidelines of the red carpet.

A handler greets them, tells them where to stand, when to move, and Louis gets a billion pictures taken of him, with and without Harry, bright flashes leaving turquoise rings in his vision every time he blinks. The pace and organised chaos, combined with Harry always next to him or within sight, make Louis forget his nerves entirely.

 

 

He's interviewed by a few outlets, people with big, rolling cameras and microphones who want to know how it feels to get his first nomination. "Absolutely surreal," Louis says, while Harry stands off to the side, watching him proudly. "It's an incredible feeling. When the nominations came out, I had to have my partner pinch me about six times to make sure it was real; still can't quite believe it, actually. I'm sort of thinking you might be a figment of my imagination, too, now."

The journalist laughs, and motions for Harry to come closer. "And is this him you've brought with you tonight?"

Louis slides his arm around Harry's waist, his hand finding a resting spot at his hip. "Yeah, yeah," he says, and looks up at Harry. "Say hi to the nice people, Harry."

"Hiii," says Harry, waving into the camera.

"And what do you think of Louis' nomination tonight?" the journalist asks him.

Harry smiles, looking slightly bewildered that someone's asking him to talk when he's mainly just there as a guest (and to rein Louis in if he fanboys all over James McAvoy), but he says, his eyes on Louis the whole time, "I think he's amazing, and I'm really pleased that so many people are getting to see that, too."

They get a signal to move along, and Louis cannot stop smiling, even when there aren't cameras on him. His face might break. He's rubbing shoulders with actors he's admired for years, and absolute strangers know his name and the work he's done, and he's _at the Olivier Awards_ , and every time he looks at Harry, Harry's looking back like he couldn't be prouder.

"This is it," he whispers to Harry, as they're shown to their seats in the auditorium, and he's only half-joking as soon as he says it. "I've peaked. This is the pinnacle of my life, everything's downhill from now on, isn't it?"

Harry rubs his back and doesn't tell him he's being stupid -- which, really, is his _one_ job. "We haven't even got married yet; how can this be the pinnacle of your life?" he asks with an amused smile. "Let's have a big, fancy wedding first, then we'll talk about peaking, all right?"

Warmth blazes through Louis' chest at the thought of it. They've talked about it before, of course, in a speculative, down-the-road sense, but more and more it's becoming real, and Louis wants to grab on with both hands. He thinks their next holiday together might be a good time to ask.

"Well, of course, then there'll be our first baby, too," he points out, because what is Louis good for if not upping the ante, "which I suppose would be a high point."

Harry runs with him. "Yeah, and then the second," he says, nodding. "And third."

Louis laughs, and he reckons that's the point, but honestly, raising three children with Harry -- it sounds amazing. Harry will be the sweetest father and dress their babies in rompers with the worst puns on them, and Louis will rub it in everyone's faces on every available social media outlet that he has the most fucking adorable children in existence. He hasn't peaked at all; he's nowhere near it. Louis leans over and kisses Harry, mid-whatever he's been saying.

"And then number seven," Harry finishes.

"Sorry," Louis says, waving his hands, "how many children have you unilaterally decided we're having?"

The dimples make an appearance. "Only seven."

"Harry. Darling. How many times do I have to tell you," Louis says, stroking his cheek, "your secret desire to start a von Trapp tribute band is weird."

Harry pulls a face at him. "Is this because I won't let you run away with Tom Hiddleston?"

Before Louis can retort that it's exactly because Harry won't let him run away with Tom Hiddleston, his attention is brought to the empty stage, where the batten lights brighten to focus on the large screen hanging upstage, and an unseen announcer introduces the Olivier's presenters for the night.

The ceremony starts out with announcing the winner for Best Revival, and then segues smoothly into Louis' category. Harry makes an absolute clot of himself, cheering and clapping like it's the World Cup finals when Louis' picture appears on the screen behind the presenters as one of the four nominees, his enthusiasm nearly matched by James, sitting a few seats down the row.

 

 

"And the winner is…" says one of the presenters, tearing the seal off the envelope, "Richard McCabe."

Louis applauds, smiling still. It's not unexpected, and McCabe's been a tour de force this past year, Louis has to admit, though it does still feel like a tiny bit of a letdown. During the acceptance speech, Harry squeezes his thigh and leaves his hand there.

 _Boooo_ , texts Zayn, who apparently is watching the proceedings on ITV's broadcast.

The rest of the ceremony is, to be honest, slightly less interesting; James doesn't win in his category either, which Louis thinks is a travesty against all of humankind. He makes a note to tell James so at the after-show reception, but for now, since there are people potentially watching, they look at each other and share a shrug.

The final award of the night, quite a bit later, is bestowed on a musical Louis has yet to see and thus has no opinion about either way. He claps until it's acceptable not to clap anymore, the presenters thank everyone for coming, and the orchestra starts up something that's barely audible under the cacophonous chatter of a large crowd excited to get started on a night of free drinks.

Held in the Royal Opera House bar, the after-show reception is just a hop and a skip to get to. Louis exchanges hugs and laughter with practically everyone, a handful of whom tell him in conspiratorial undertones that he ought to have walked away with the statuette, and, even though Harry's disappeared to the toilets when Louis gets a chance to chat up James McAvoy, he manages not to have the vapours for the entirety of their conversation. It is, however, a close and unanticipated call when Ruth Wilson sidles up to compliment him on the play he's currently doing, though Harry's returned by that time and fills in words for him when Louis can't seem to find them because he's talking to Ruth fucking Wilson. It's not a bad night, all in all.

Their ride home is quiet, comfortable, hands laced, the aftereffects of an endless profusion of champagne keeping them warm and sated. When they're dropped off, they ride up in the lift to their shared flat tucked against each other. Louis feels a little tired, but it's the kind where he's not exactly sleepy, he just wants to nestle in bed with a cup of tea and talk aimlessly about nothing with Harry for a few hours.

Perfectly anticipating his needs, Harry beelines for the kitchen as soon as they get in to put a kettle on. Louis plasters himself to Harry's back while they wait for the water to boil. "Love you, boyfriend," he says softly.

Harry turns to press a kiss to his forehead. "Love you, too," he says, and breathes in deep. "I've got a surprise for you."

Looking up at him with mild suspicion, Louis says, "Haz, you know your surprises don't always go over well, right? There aren't people hiding in here again, are there?" He peers through the open kitchen archway, trying to see if there are any shadowy figures shielded behind the sofa. "You know Liam still hasn't _quite_ forgiven me."

"No, you know we said I'd never do that again," Harry says, because they had agreed, after discovering that Louis' fight-or-flight response consisted entirely of fight and he'd punched, out of pure reflex, a party guest jumping out at him from behind an armchair, that surprise birthday parties were officially banned in their house. "You just don't know how to take surprises properly. Anyway, I promise you'll like this one. Promise, promise."

"Okay," Louis says, taking over tea duty. "But it's on you if it all goes terribly wrong."

Harry busses him on the cheek and lopes off somewhere else in the flat. "Look what I got us," he says when he comes back, lifting up two Kinder Surprises in front of his face, so just his eyes, wide and coy, are visible to Louis. "Saw them at the supermarket yesterday, and it reminded me of our very first date, d'you remember?"

"Of course I remember, I planned it. And as I recall, it was the best date ever," Louis says, as Harry nods in agreement. "This is your surprise? I approve." He reaches out to pluck the nearer egg out of Harry's left hand, but Harry withdraws it quickly.

"Mm, no, that one's mine," he says, clutching it to his chest, and tosses Louis the other.

"All right, you weirdo," Louis says, accepting the reject egg with a raised eyebrow. "How much champagne did you have at the reception, exactly?"

Harry unwraps his chocolate happily. "I just have a feeling about this one," he says, crumpling the foil wrapping up and sticking it in his pocket, the nearest bin not quite near enough. He eyes Louis. "Aren't you going to open yours?"

"No," Louis says airily, crossing his arms, "I'm going to wait until you get your crap toy out of there, 'cos I want to see your face when mine turns out to be way more cool. Yours is going to be some shit spinner thing that won't even work, you'll see."

Shaking his head fondly, like he expected nothing less, Harry bites open his chocolate egg, catching the cracked pieces in the palm he hovers under his chin. The shards get eaten, and he twists open the yellow capsule. Mouth agape, Harry looks stunned as reaches into the plastic shell with two fingers.

"I didn't even-- Look," he says, holding out a small blue gorilla that's obviously from the same set little green Wendell came from. Harry's incredulous grin is about a thousand watts brighter than a Kinder toy warrants. "I told you I had a feeling about this one. What shall I call him?"

Louis chuckles, shrugging. "Kevin?" he throws out.

"Let's see your toy be cooler than Kevin now," Harry says, leaning against the counter, sitting Kevin next to where his wrists rests on the marble edge.

Well, Louis' probably going to get the shit spinner now. He peels the wrapper off, balls up the foil, and chucks it at Harry, who catches it as it bounces off his chest. "Here," says Louis, as he cracks the egg apart at the seam, which is obviously the proper way, giving Harry one of the halves, "have that."

Screwing the capsule apart, Louis finds stuffed inside it a dark blue bag, velvety to the touch, its satiny ribbon drawstrings pulled taut. "What the hell is this?" he says, lifting the bag out by its string. This looks more pointless than a shit spinner. "A money bag to match bank robber Barbie's evening wear?"

He has four younger sisters; he's seen weirder things played out.

Harry shrugs, rubbing a finger under his nose. "Might be something inside?" he suggests from behind his hand.

Louis tugs the mouth of the bag loose, seeing something glint inside, maybe Barbie's ill-gotten loot. He shakes it out into his palm, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight of a simple, silver ring. Along with it comes out a folded piece of paper that would normally be toy assembly instructions, except it says, in Harry's neat, looping handwriting, _Marry me?_

Harry clears his throat softly. He pushes off from the counter, eases himself to the floor on one knee, and throws his arms open wide, grinning like mad.

" _Harry Styles_ ," Louis gasps, a laugh tripping through it on the way out, equal parts ecstatic and appalled. "You are not fucking proposing to me with a Kinder Egg."

"Oh, I am," he says, eyes sparkling. 

"You perfect little shit," Louis says, tugging Harry to his feet so he can kiss him.

It was always meant to end up this way, the two of them. Louis has known it deep in his bones ever since that long ago night in the patisserie, sat on the floor in each other's arms. Even so, even with Harry looking far too pleased with himself that this scheme has managed to surprise Louis, even though he has a ring of his own hidden at the back of his sock drawer, Louis can't help the luscious swell of his heart, the widening curve of his mouth as he kisses and kisses Harry, and thinks, the shape of the words heady and exquisite, _I'm going to marry you_.

"I hate you," Louis says, pulling back a few inches to narrow his eyes at Harry. "You know I wanted to be the one to do it."

Harry's smile shines like a sunbeam. "Nobody said you couldn't. Go and get yours, then. I know you have it somewhere."

The only reason Harry knows that is because he knows Louis, and the thought warms Louis to the core as much as it exasperates him. As he curls his hand around Harry's fingers and leads him to the bedroom, Louis tuts, "Is there to be no mystery in our relationship anymore?"

"You don't know how I got that ring inside the egg," Harry points out.

"Fine, how?"

"Carefully," Harry admits, swinging his and Louis' linked hands while Louis' free one opens his dresser drawer. "I'd had to have a crack at about a dozen others before I'd got it right."

Busy moving aside a carefully constructed barricade of socks and pants, behind which the ring is concealed, it takes Louis a second to process the pun, subtle as it is by Harry's usual standard. "Why am I so in love with you?" he asks, as he successfully retrieves the small leather box. "Why?"

"I'm extremely funny," Harry says, lifting Louis' hand to kiss the ridges of his knuckles.

Louis snaps the box open, and a wide smile appears on Harry's face just as quickly, even though he'd known it was coming. Louis doesn't do the down-on-one-knee thing; it's been done, and he already has to crane his neck up to look at Harry on a daily basis, come on.

"Harry Styles, moon of my life--"

"Wait," says Harry. "If I'm not allowed to Kinder Egg you, you can't _Game of Thrones_ me."

Louis puts the ring box down on the dresser top, frowning. "That seems a very arbitrary rule, Harold." He thinks about his options. There's really only one, isn't there? "Well, I guess we'll just have to do this the hard way, won't we?"

"Which is?" says Harry.

"Ask me why I want to marry you," Louis says, stepping forward into his space.

Though his head is cocked, like he's not quite sure where this is going, Harry plays along. "Why do you want to marry me, Lou?" he asks, a smile building on his face as he hears himself say it.

"Because," Louis says, and this is probably cheating, because he's sort of pulling pieces from the wedding vows he's been writing in his head for ages, but he still means every last bit of it, "you have the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known. Because when you smile it lights up the whole world. Because I can't imagine going to bed or waking up in the morning without you there. Because you've seen the worst parts of me, and you still inexplicably love me anyway."

Harry's eyes are shining, but Louis' not done yet.

He links their fingers together, takes a breath, the words coming on their own now, ones he hasn't planned. "Because before we met," Louis says slowly, quietly, feeling the weight of each word, "I didn't even know that I was adrift, that I was missing a part of me, but when I found you, it felt like-- it felt like I was a lost ship finally coming home to harbour. You're my home, Harry. You're my anchor. And wherever you are is where I want to be. Always. That's why I want to marry you."

"That's not fair," Harry says, sniffling. "You've made me cry."

"Told you it was the hard way," Louis says with a soft chuckle. He curves a palm to Harry's cheek. "So, you reckon you want to marry me back?"

"Be a bit of a letdown if I said 'no' now, wouldn't it?" Harry laughs, pressing his forehead against Louis'. His smile is like the beginnings of a sunrise, with the promise of something brilliant to come. "Of course I want to marry you. Let's get married, Lou."

"Okay," says Louis, and his face must be a mirror of Harry's, his joy feels so big.

They stay clasped together for a quiet minute, breathing each other in, smiling in silent revelry of marking their future together.

"When we tell people, though, when they want to know how the proposal went down," Harry says at length, the left corner of his mouth curled up and tugging an impish dimple in tight, "can we make it the Kinder Egg story? 'Cos I didn't learn how to peel off the wrapper in one piece _and_ seal the chocolate halves back together just to have our friends not know about it." 

Louis laughs, his heart filled to the seams. It doesn't much matter to him what they tell people about it; what's important is that it _is_. What's important is that Harry is here and is his, and always will be.

"Whatever your heart desires," Louis says magnanimously. It takes a second for him to get the next word out, new as it is, foreign almost, even though he warms to it as soon as it appears in his mind. He tries it out, carding loose fingers through Harry's curls, "Husband."  

Harry's smile is the radiant light of dawn. "I like the sound of that. I could get used to it."

"Let's," says Louis, and kisses him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! :) Thanks to everyone reading and to [mystardustmelody](http://www.mystardustmelody.tumblr.com) for coming through big with her beta work. Come and say hi at my [tumblr](http://www.mmmpointy.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined; it's always lovely to chat with you guys! ♥


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